


To Be (Un)Known

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [78]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A sprinkling of pining thrown in for flavor, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eliot is an Ass, Emotional Baggage, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Guess what inspired this, High King Eliot Waugh, High Queen Margo Hanson, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sassy Quentin, and refusing to admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: Margo sighs when she finally finds Eliot, stepping through the open balcony doors and announcing herself by saying, "You know, you're the High King, but that doesn't mean you have to be this dramaticallthe time."Eliot scoffs, his hands tight on the railing. He turns to give her a smile. "It absolutely does.""Well, maybe because it'syou," she concedes, stepping closer and laying her hand on Eliot's. "What's wrong?" she asks, quieter."Nothing," Eliot says, a blatant lie. He sighs. "I don't know. I feel... unsettled."
Relationships: Fen/Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker
Series: Collaborations [78]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 5
Kudos: 159
Collections: Fics good enough to send to my sister





	To Be (Un)Known

Margo sighs when she finally finds Eliot, stepping through the open balcony doors and announcing herself by saying, "You know, you're the High King, but that doesn't mean you have to be this dramatic _all_ the time."

Eliot scoffs, his hands tight on the railing. He turns to give her a smile. "It absolutely does."

"Well, maybe because it's _you,_ " she concedes, stepping closer and laying her hand on Eliot's. "What's wrong?" she asks, quieter.

"Nothing," Eliot says, a blatant lie. He sighs. "I don't know. I feel... unsettled."

Margo squeezes his hand, pressing in closer so she can lean against him. "Any particular reason why? That last meeting got a little rough, I know."

Eliot shakes his head. "It was nothing I haven't dealt with before," he says. "I don't know what it is, exactly. It's just a feeling. Like... I need to be somewhere?"

Margo frowns, expression thoughtful, as she pulls back to study Eliot. "How long have you felt like that?"

"Only a week or so," Eliot says. He shrugs. "I'll be fine. I'm just in a funk."

Margo studies Eliot for another moment before she says anything else. "Alright. I'll leave you to your brooding." Her tone is teasing, smile fond as she leans in and up to press a kiss to Eliot's cheek. "It's almost dinner, by the way. Fen had some things she wanted to talk to you about from her latest trip."

"I won't be long, dear," Eliot promises. He turns to watch her go - but freezes as she reaches the balcony door, captivated by a sudden sound in the distance, a whisper on the wind. He turns to follow it, but sees nothing except for the familiar expanse of his kingdom. "Did you hear that?"

Margo's back at his side in an instant. "No; what did you hear?"

Eliot strains to hear the sound again, but it's gone. He shakes his head. "Nothing. It must have just been the wind."

Margo doesn't look entirely convinced, but she just takes Eliot's hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. "Well, let me know if you hear it again. You never know _what_ odd noises might be in Fillory."

Eliot laughs. "You'll be the first to know," he promises.

* * *

The delegation from one of the smaller kingdoms in the Far Flung Isles is one that Eliot’s hosted before; because of this, he hadn’t minded when the ambassadors had asked if they could bring their children, since this meeting was expected to last longer than the last time they had met. Detailing a full alliance and trade agreement took far longer than ‘there’s a new High King in Fillory, let’s say hello and see if we like each other.’

Still, the talks have been going well, for the most part, and the children have stayed out from underfoot - until Eliot walks into the library and finds them and their caretaker and bodyguards gathered around a history book. Before he can duck back out, the youngest, Alaina, has spotted him and scrambled out of her seat. “King Eliot!” she cries, darting towards him and stopping just shy of crashing into his legs, stumbling into a clumsy curtsy. “Nonna was just telling us about Fillory’s history and about the time without a High King!”

Nurse Belladonna - who’d simply given Margo a mysterious smile when she’d asked about the origin of her name - comes over and tucks Alaina against her skirt. “My apologies, your majesty. She’s fond of stories in general, and finds histories particularly fascinating.”

"It's no trouble," Eliot says, smiling down at a suddenly-shy Alaina. "I'm afraid I can't help with that particular story, because I wasn't in Fillory for much of that time."

"We've actually covered most of that time," Belladonna offers. "If you've nowhere pressing to be, maybe you'd like to tell the children your story?"

At that, Alaina's older brother, Bertran, slides off of his seat and comes forward, giving Eliot a hopeful look. "Nonna and our teachers say it's always important to talk to people with real experience, not just read the stories out of a book," he says. 

"Well, she's right about that," Eliot agrees. "Shall we all sit down?"

Alaina and Bertran give Eliot matching beaming smiles before darting back over to the table and taking their seats. Belladonna's smile is smaller, but still genuine and pleased, as she takes her place behind her charges. Alaina barely waits until Eliot's taken his own seat before asking, "You're from Earth, aren't you? High Kings can only be human, so you have to be at least human, but you weren't born a prince, Nonna said."

"I wasn't," Eliot confirms. "I was born something of a peasant, back on Earth. My family were very poor, hardworking people. We lived on the money we earned from selling what we could grow."

Alaina looks intrigued. "What kinds of things did you grow?"

"Vegetables, mostly," Eliot says. "Potatoes, carrots, cabbages. We also traded livestock, and kept chickens for eggs."

"How did you find Fillory?" Bertran asks eagerly. 

Eliot chuckles. "I don't actually know," he admits. "I left home as soon as I was legally allowed to. My family and I... didn't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. So once I turned eighteen, I decided to move away. I was on my way from my home state to a place called New York, and I found a door. It appeared almost out of nowhere, something which is very odd on Earth, but I had nothing to lose, so I went through it. And I wound up in Fillory."

Alaina and Bertran look entranced. "What was the first thing you saw?"

Eliot thinks about it. "The first thing I saw was the tree I fell out of," he says. "And then I saw a winding road, and a carriage, which stopped once the driver saw me." He smiles. "Can you guess who got out of it?"

"Was it Queen Margo?" Alaina asks, breathless and more than a little starry-eyed. "Everyone says she's your best friend."

"It sure was," Eliot says, grinning. "She was a noblewoman, and I was a poor stranger, but she convinced her family to take me in. We've been inseparable ever since."

Bertran scrunches his nose. "Was it difficult, learning how to be noble? There's so many _rules._ "

"What about becoming High King?" Alaina asks, right over top of her brother. "How did you find out you were the High King?"

Eliot laughs. "I always knew I was meant for better things than my parents would have wanted for me," he says, answering both of them. "I wasn't expecting this, exactly, but I took to Margo's lifestyle like a duck to water. Honestly, when we found out there was a test to find out who the next High King was, we did it as a joke. We never for a second thought it would be me."

Bertran seems satisfied with this, but Alaina has one more question. "King Eliot, aren't there supposed to be four monarchs of Fillory? Two Kings and two Queens?"

"Yes," Eliot says. He takes a breath. "I made Margo High Queen, of course. And Queen Fen was an obvious choice - she's so lovely, right?" This gets general agreement from the children, and he grins. "But I haven't found another king, yet. I hope one day I will, but for now we're doing pretty well as a threesome, I think."

"Yes, but a structure built with four corners stands stronger than one with fewer," Bertran says, pronunciation careful, like he's quoting someone. "I hope you find your King soon, King Eliot."

Eliot's smile feels just a little strained. "Me, too," he says.

Belladonna steps in when Alaina opens her mouth. "Thank you for your time, your majesty. But, I’m afraid that it's time for these two to return to their lessons."

Eliot smiles graciously and gets to his feet as Alaina and Bertran let out identical sighs. "It's been lovely," he says. "I'm sure if you find Queen Margo over the next few days, she can tell you all about the mischief we got into when we were younger. I'll see you both later."

* * *

It takes another two weeks to complete negotiations and send the delegation from the Far Flung Islands on their way. It was a perfectly pleasant visit, all told, but Eliot is still glad to see them go. He collapses into a seat beside the roaring fire in the living area of his own private quarters, High Queen Margo and Queen Fen already comfortable, and sighs. "Thank God that's over," he says - and immediately corrects himself. "Thank _Gods_. Can we make sure our social calendar is empty for the next month? I don't think I can take being that diplomatic again for a while."

Margo snickers when Fen nods in agreement. "I didn't have to get my knives out _once,_ " she complains. "They were perfectly nice people."

Margo strokes her hair, giving Eliot a smile. "Well, a month isn't doable, but we can at least guarantee you a week," she chuckles. "Aside from your normal duties, of course."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Of course," he says. "You know, I never asked to be High King."

This time Fen snickers while Margo reaches out to give the side of Eliot's foot a gentle kick. "Maybe, but you still agreed to come with me to test yourself," she laughs. "And you love being High King; you're just dramatic."

"How dare you call me out on my bullshit this way," Eliot complains, but he's grinning, too. "I'll have you know that I--" He cuts himself off, his jaw going slack as he turns his head towards the window. Did he just hear it again, that strange whisper that's been following him for weeks? Or was it just the wind?

Margo sits up straight, Fen as well. "El?" Margo asks, quiet and concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Eliot says, absently. He's scanning the trees outside the window, the sky beyond; he's straining to hear it again. "I thought I heard..."

Eliot can't see the look Margo and Fen exchange, but he can hear Fen's quiet, "A call? Like a whisper on the wind?"

Eliot whips around to look at her. "How did you know that?"

"Because it's what I heard sometimes before I finally met Margo," Fen says, giving her wife a smile. "I felt... like I needed to be somewhere, like someone was pulling on my arm, and if I ignored that for long enough, I'd start hearing things on the wind."

"What are you saying?" Eliot asks desperately, though he thinks he knows the answer. "What am I hearing?"

"It's your soulmate, El," Margo says softly, shifting until she can reach over and lay her hand on Eliot's arm. "Their soul is reaching out to yours. At least, that's what the legends say."

Eliot actually cringes away from her. "No," he says. "I don't _have_ a soulmate - I'm from Earth!"

"Everyone has a soulmate of some kind," Fen says. "They're not always romantic or sexual. But if you have a soul, it has a mate - or more than one."

Margo nods. "It's not very well studied, but you aren't the first human to come to Fillory. They never felt the call until they came to Fillory and realized their soulmate was here."

"So why am I only feeling it _now?_ "

Fen shrugs. "As far as we know, you don't start feeling the call until all parties are mature," she offers. "It happens at different ages for everyone; I didn't feel the call until I was twenty."

"Right," Eliot says. "So my soulmate, whoever and wherever they are, has only just reached maturity, and now our souls are literally calling to each other. Are they hearing this, too?"

"Most likely," Margo says, nodding. "Maybe not at the same time you are, but they're still feeling _a_ call."

"And I'm just supposed to, what, blindly follow it?" Eliot asks. "Is that what you guys did?"

Margo and Fen exchange a fond look. "When we were ready, yes," Margo says, looking back at Eliot. 

"I just... told my da I was following the call one day, packed my things and started walking," Fen says. "And kept walking until we found each other."

"We found each other a few days before we found you," Margo recalls with a laugh. "It’s why I was traveling in the first place - I jumped on my father's suggestion of touring our lands because I wanted to follow the call."

Eliot takes a breath, and then another. "Well," he says, "I can't follow it. I have a kingdom to run."

"They'll follow it to you," Fen says confidently. "One day."

"Just... don't turn them away when they do, El," Margo adds, giving him a look that's far too soft for the meaning behind her words. 

"I'm not intending to," Eliot insists. "But I have to put Fillory first."

"I know you do, but don't forget you have us," Margo says while Fen nods. "You're allowed to find your own happiness, too, and we can handle the kingdom while you do."

Eliot smiles. "I guess we'll see."

* * *

"Well," Arielle sighs, setting her empty basket down, "I'd say we've had quite a successful day. Did you say the others will be joining us for dinner in the tavern later?"

Penny chooses that moment to pop into existence in their midst, Julia and Kady holding his hands. Arielle beams at them while Quentin jumps in surprise, swearing.

"Perfect timing! We can all walk there together."

"I swear you do that on purpose," Quentin complains before giving Julia a brief hug after setting down his own basket. "It's like you _know_ when you're being talked about."

Kady laughs, keeping her hand in Penny's as she smirks at Quentin. "Haven't you ever heard the expression 'your ears must be burning'?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not literally true!" Quentin hesitates. "Is it? For Fillorian magicians?"

Penny rolls his eyes. "No, Gods." He looks between Kady and Julia. "Where did you find him?"

”On the playground in third grade eating dirt after he misjudged a jump from a swing,” Julia laughs. 

”When he tripped over my bag in our Econ 101 class in freshman year,” Kady says, grinning. “He’s not that great at first impressions. Or second. Or third.”

”Okay, you know what? Fuck you both,” Quentin says, cheeks hot as he turns away from them and towards Arielle. “I _really_ need a drink now, can we get going?”

"Ignore them," Arielle soothes, slipping her hand into the crook of Quentin's arm. "I think you're a darling."

" _Thank_ you," Quentin says fervently, laying his hand over Arielle's and starting to walk, ignoring Julia and Kady, who are still snickering. "You're very kind, Arielle."

They continue bickering on the walk from Arielle's family's orchard to the village proper, and all the way down the main road to the tavern. They're still laughing as they tumble through the doors, piling into a table in the corner and giving their orders to Mariah when she approaches their table. "Thanks," Quentin says, giving Mariah a smile before turning his attention back to Julia. "How did things go today at the clinic? Any more stupid injuries?"

"Plenty," Julia says, with a conspiratorial smile. "But you know the rules. Patient-healer confidentiality."

"At least until we get home," Penny snorts.

Quentin sighs. "You're no fun," he complains, but it's light. "We don't have that, luckily. Guess who found their soulmate?"

"Who?" Julia asks, her eyes wide.

"Gerry's daughter," Quentin says, grinning. "Apparently her soulmate dropped their drink on her skirt when they met while she was in Whitespire."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Julia sighs. "She's a sweet girl, she deserves it."

"She does," Quentin agrees, smiling. "But at least she didn't have to travel to a whole new realm to find her soulmate!"

Penny rolls his eyes. "Let's hope she didn't get saddled with the asshole best friend, too."

"Rude," Quentin sniffs. "I'm a goddamn delight."

Kady grins, wrapping an arm around Penny and leaning into him, her grin turning into a smirk. "Not as delightful as Penny. Skalds are multitalented, you know."

Arielle rolls her eyes. "Let's talk about something else," she suggests.

The conversation flows easily between the five of them as they finally settle down, tucking into their food when it arrives. Quentin and Arielle offer up the rest of the gossip they'd gathered along the peach route, and soon even Kady's offering a few stories from her day, and Penny even relaxes enough to laugh without a hint of derision at one of Quentin's anecdotes. The tavern fills up around them, pressing them further into their corner, and Quentin gradually becomes quieter as the evening wears on. He's just contemplating getting up, telling his friends that he's going to leave, when there's a sudden ringing in his ears, and he winces.

Julia immediately notices, and she looks at Quentin with concern writ clear on her face. "Q? Are you alright?"

Quentin gives her a tight smile; he knows that he looks uncomfortable, but, well - he is. "Yeah, I just - It's really loud and crowded in here."

Arielle touches his arm. "Should we get some air?"

Quentin gives her a grateful look. "I was just about to leave, but I wouldn't mind some company if you're ready to go, too?"

"Of course," Arielle says, already getting to her feet. "Have fun, you three."

Penny raises his hand in farewell, and Julia offers him a smile. "I'll see you later, Q."

"See you later, Jules," Quentin says, smiling as he follows Arielle out. They wind their way through the press of bodies in the tavern, and it's only when they finally spill out the front door that he takes a deep breath. " _Fuck._ That was rough."

"Are you okay?" Arielle asks, gripping his arm. "What happened?"

"My anxiety spiked - my brain basically... panicked without a good reason," Quentin says, giving her a slight, tired smile. "But I got out before it got too bad."

Arielle nods, her eyes wide and earnest with her desire to help, to understand. "Should we take a walk before we go home?" she suggests.

Quentin's smile grows. "That would be great."

Arielle just smiles and turns them down a lane that runs adjacent to the main road. It'll take them home, eventually, but it's a longer route than the usual one, and more scenic. The low-hanging trees and colourful flowers are barely visible in the evening gloom, but the air is full of the sound of crickets and owls, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the babbling of the stream at the edge of the path. "I love going this way," Arielle confesses after a few minutes, her voice quiet, her hand warm on Quentin's arm. "Father hates it when I do, but it's perfectly safe."

"Even safer when you're not alone," Quentin hums, fingers twitching as he conjures a small, softly-glowing orb to help light their path. "It’s beautiful."

Arielle beams. "Are there places like this where you're from?" she asks. "Does it remind you of home?"

"There wasn't a lot of places like this in the city," Quentin says thoughtfully. "I like it, though. And the city never really felt like home, especially after my dad died."

Arielle makes a soft, sympathetic sound. "I hope Fillory feels like home one day," she says.

Quentin glances at Arielle for a moment before looking back at the path, careful not to trip as he confesses, "It... actually kind of does? More like it _could_ be home, I guess, not just... the place where I live. I like it here. It's beautiful, and I've - I've met some really great people." He feels heat rise to his cheeks, and can't help sneaking another glance at Arielle before he adds, "Except Penny, of course. He's too annoying."

Arielle laughs. "I've known Penny for a long time," she tells him. "He'll come around."

"I hope so," Quentin sighs, relaxing. "Because I'm sure as hell not going anywhere."

Arielle turns to him in the pale light of the orb, her smile a soft, shy thing. "I'm really glad, Quentin," she says.

"Me, too," Quentin says quietly, smiling. "I like it here, and... I want to see how life goes."

* * *

"Eliot, it's nearly market day, we need to go over the - " Margo cuts herself off when she spots Eliot. "What are you _doing?_ You have a meeting with Tick and the rest of the High Council in an hour and you look like you haven't slept at all!"

"Because I haven't," Eliot says wearily, rubbing at his temples. "Why haven't we invented coffee yet?"

"We're still trying to find soil the seeds the Travelers brought will grow in," Margo says, putting her paper down to come over to Eliot. She twirls her fingers, lets some frost gather over them, and replaces Eliot's hands with hers, fingertips resting over his temples. "What's wrong, El?"

Eliot's first instinct is to deflect, but it's _Margo_. He sighs. "It's getting worse," he confesses.

" _Oh,_ baby," Margo sighs. "It was everything you could do not to walk out in the middle of the night, wasn't it?"

Eliot nods miserably. "I can't do it," he says. "I can't walk out of my goddamn castle and go on a wild goose chase to find my soulmate." He waves a hand. "I know I'd be leaving the kingdom in perfectly capable hands, but it's not that simple. I'm High King by blood. I can't just _leave_."

Margo sends another pulse of power, her fingertips chilling even further as she drags them down the curve of Eliot's jaw and down to rest over his pulse before returning to his temples. "I know," she soothes. "But if it's this strong... It gets stronger with proximity. They might be coming to Whitespire."

Eliot sighs and leans into her touch. "Does that change anything?" he asks. "Can the kingdom handle this level of instability right now?"

"I think you worry a little too much," Margo says honestly. "Fillory has had soulmates for millennia, Eliot. That includes High Kings of the past. It might be a little difficult, but Fen and I can cover things for you while you sort it out if you run into them or decide to go looking for them."

"No," Eliot says. "I can't. I'm not ready; I don't want a soulmate."

Margo's expression is sympathetic. "I can talk to the healers; they'll keep their mouths shut. Maybe they have something to help you sleep. Most things that block the calling are... dangerously addictive, though."

"I'll take the risk," Eliot says, swiftly, surely. "Anything to make this stop."

"Even if it will impact your ability to rule?" Margo asks, eyebrow raised. "Anything they have is a stopgap, El. It won't be permanent. The only way to get rid of a calling is to die or find your soulmate and reject them so thoroughly you literally break both of your souls."

"I think you're underestimating how stubborn I am," Eliot says.

"Believe me, I'm not," Margo says, "but please, Eliot. I grew up here, with the myths and legends. I've _seen_ what happens to people who try to put off a bond. It always catches up with you."

"Then it can," Eliot says. "But not now."

Margo studies him for a moment before she sighs, nods. "Alright. I'll talk with the healers - _but_ I am also still keeping an eye on you. You're my family, and I'm not going to lose you to something this stupid."

Eliot smiles at her. "You'll never lose me," he promises.

"Good," Margo says fiercely, shifting until she can wrap her arms around Eliot, drawing him in for a brief, tight hug. "Now, come on. We need to get you presentable for the High Council to go over the preparations for market day."

* * *

"You could go for a walk," Arielle suggests once they've set up their pitch. It's a good spot in the middle of the market, the market itself in the shadow of the walls of Castle Whitespire. "We've got a little while before people start coming through."

Quentin blows out a breath, rubs his hands against his arms in an attempt to ground himself. "Yeah, okay," he says after a moment. "Maybe it'll help me work out some of these jitters."

Arielle smiles. "Bring me back some mulled cider," she says. "Don't be long. It's chilly this morning."

Quentin smiles as well, reaching over to touch Arielle's arm briefly. "I'll be back soon," he promises before stepping back. He wanders around the market for a while, checking out the other stalls and tents, greeting those vendors he knows and even managing to introduce himself to a couple he doesn't. That tight feeling at the back of his neck doesn't subside, neither does the urge to _run,_ but Quentin still finds it easier to ignore both urges when he's actually moving. When he finally makes the turn back towards his and Arielle's pitch, he detours briefly for a couple of cups of mulled cider, as requested. 

People are just starting to explore the market when Quentin gets back, and Arielle grins at him as she takes the cup he offers her. "Thank you," she says. "Do you feel any better?"

"A little," Quentin admits, coming to stand next to her and out of the main flow of foot traffic. "Still nervous about running this by ourselves."

"We'll be fine," Arielle assures him. "I've done it before."

"That makes me feel a bit better," Quentin admits. 

Arielle grins. "Good," she says. "Look, our first customer's coming over."

Quentin takes a deep breath, puts on his most natural smile, and turns to greet the customer. 

* * *

They get a steady flow of business all day, and they do very well. Arielle is flushed with the pleasure of a job well done, and Quentin's glad, he really is, but he also... Can't shake the weirdest feeling that something is _wrong_. Arielle notices, because of course she does, but she doesn't say anything until his distraction gets so bad that he flat-out ignores a customer until Arielle steps in and deals with the guy herself.

Even then, she isn't harsh with him; she just reaches out to touch his arm, and asks, "What's on your mind, Quentin?"

Quentin gives himself a shake, winces when the ringing in his ears spikes. "It's my anxiety, I think," he says, giving Arielle an apologetic look. "I keep feeling like I need to bolt, get away from the crowd."

Arielle frowns. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really anything anyone can do," Quentin says regretfully. "I can make it through to the end of the day, though."

"Are you sure?"

Quentin smiles. "I'm sure," he promises her. "I'll go to bed early tonight to make up for today."

Arielle smiles. "All right," she says. "If you need to leave early, though, just let me know. We've done more than enough today."

"I'll let you know," Quentin assures Arielle. "But we've got more customers for right now."

* * *

Eliot caves to Margo's insistence he get out of the Castle a few weeks later. Every week without fail for the past month, the call has waxed stronger, peaking on market day before it wanes again, and Margo has, in her own words, "had enough of your self-sacrificial and cowardly shit, Eliot! You are going to the next market day and walking around the marketplace at _least_ twice, or so help me gods I will drag you down there myself."

In the end, Eliot had opted to go by himself; it was the option that left him more dignity, and if he went by himself then Margo wouldn't insist he go over and greet his soulmate right away. 

The market is delightfully busy, enough that even when Eliot's crown is noticed, the news doesn't spread too far, lost under the bustle of the crowds. He takes his time walking around, the people and the atmosphere almost enough to let him forget why he's here - until he nears the outer edge of the market, and he hears _it_ again, clearer than ever before. 

For the first time, Eliot lets himself follow it - and the sensation of being pulled in one direction doesn't ease, exactly, but it does become less urgent, like it's satisfied that he's finally doing something about it. He follows the pull through the market, dodging around stall holders and patrons alike, until he's right at the heart of it, and then he hears it again. It's like a bell now, bright and sharp and beautiful. Eliot rotates on the spot, scanning the crowd, and then stops with an almost physical _jolt._ There, behind a stall selling peaches and plums. He's... right there.

And he's with a girl.

He’s sat on a stool just behind and to the side of the boxes of produce, and his shoulders are hunched, his expression… _pained._ As Eliot watches, the girl he’s with murmurs something that makes his soulmate nod, and one of her hands lifts, fingers glinting the way that Margo’s do when she’s chilled them, and comes to rest at the nape of his neck. Eliot can see the tension in his shoulders melt, even if his expression doesn’t ease to the same extent.

Eliot actually takes a step back. His soulmate is... a commoner. A farmer, from the looks of things. Not to mention, at least as far as he can see, straight. He closes his eyes, passes a shaking hand over his face. _No._ He did what Margo asked, he followed the call, he found the soul his own is reaching out for - but he can't. He can't follow through, he can't walk over there and talk to this... this _peasant_. After working so hard to escape that life, he can't be dragged back into it, now. And what would his subjects say, if he asked them to accept yet another pauper into the royal family, as his spouse or, Jesus, their king?

Eliot is still standing there, right in the middle of the row of stalls, barely a stone's throw away from his soulmate and his - wife? He's trembling all over, even as something in his heart sings to see his soulmate laugh at something the woman said, reach up to push some of his floppy, ridiculous hair out of his eyes, and glance up.

_Shit._

Eliot doesn't know if his soulmate feels it, too, or if he sees Eliot there and knows him, because he turns tail and flees.

* * *

Fen has one of her numerous knives out in an instant after the door to her and Margo's chambers slams open, relaxing only minutely when she sees it's Eliot - but he doesn't look right. 

He looks _wrecked._

Fen glances at Margo, who's already leapt to her feet and closed the distance between herself and Eliot, magic shutting and locking the door behind him. "What's wrong?" she asks, concern clear in her voice. "El, what happened?"

"I found him," Eliot says, his eyes wild. "My soulmate."

"You did?" Margo asks, excited - but only for a moment, and then she reaches out to take Eliot's hands in hers. "What's wrong? Why aren't you excited? Why are you _here?_ "

"Because I'm pretty sure he's married to a woman," Eliot says. "And he's a _farmer_."

Fen coughs, not quite delicately. "I'm assuming the married thing is your bigger issue? Because there's a solution to that."

" _Fen,_ " Margo chides, turning her attention back to Eliot. "Are you sure? Come on, come sit. Tell us everything."

Eliot sits. "He was right in the middle of the market, working a stall that sold fucking peaches, and he had a girl on his arm. They kept touching and laughing together. She was really pretty, too." He huffs. "Is there a chance I'm not his soulmate? Is that possible?"

Fen and Margo exchange a glance. "It's... incredibly rare, but there are some people who just... don't feel the pull," Margo says, reluctant. "They still have a soulmate, it's impossible not to, but they don't feel pulled to them."

"Never heard of it happening to a High King, though," Fen interjects, expression doubtful. "Their soulmate always finds them eventually if they don't go out looking first."

"Well, he looked happy," Eliot says. "And I'm not interested, so I guess there's a first time for everything."

The two women exchange another glance. "I suppose there is," Margo concedes on a sigh. "We weren't planning on doing much of anything except reading and catching up on that paperwork Tick's been hounding us about. Join us?"

"I was planning on getting very drunk on sub-par wine," Eliot says, "but sure. Why not?"

"We'll all get drunk afterwards," Margo assures him. 

"This way we can do it without Tick looking at us all disappointed," Fen says cheerfully. "Come on, sit next to me, we can go over this first stack together."

Eliot doesn’t so much sit down as _fall_ down, but nobody mentions it.

* * *

” _Gods,_ ” Quentin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he rolls his shoulders, setting the last of the empty boxes down in the shed behind the barn at Arielle’s family’s farm. “Market day never gets any less busy, does it?”

"Never," Arielle laughs. "I enjoy it, though. Is it getting any better for you?"

Quentin waves his hand in a so-so motion. "A little, but I think it's just that I'm getting used to it. Haven't had another episode like the other week, though, so I'm not really complaining."

Arielle smiles. "I'm really glad, Quentin. I worry about you."

Quentin flushes enough to be noticeable in the fading sunlight. "You do?"

"Of course," Arielle says, her expression open and honest. "I care about you a lot."

Quentin's blush deepens. "I care about you, too," he says, giving Arielle a small smile. 

Arielle smiles back and draws a little closer. "I've actually been meaning to ask you something lately," she confesses.

Quentin stays still, gaze flicking over Arielle's face. "Ask me what?"

Arielle bites her lip, but her smile doesn't falter. "I really like you, Quentin," she says. "And I think you like me, too. So I was wondering if I... might ask for a kiss?"

"Oh," Quentin says, rather dumbly - but then he smiles, one that matches Arielle's, and steps in closer, until he could reach out and touch Arielle - but he doesn't, not yet. "I'd - I'd grant it. If you asked for a kiss."

Arielle actually giggles. "Then please," she says, "Quentin, won't you kiss me?"

Quentin's smile widens and softens at the same time, and he finally reaches out for Arielle, hand curving around the side of her neck and guiding their mouths together in a soft, sweet kiss. It lingers for a moment, but... It never goes beyond _nice,_ and Quentin finally ends the kiss by pulling away, putting space between them. "That... was good," he says, sounding more than a little awkward; he _does_ like Arielle, he really does, but that kiss wasn't... He hates to even _think_ it, but the kiss wasn't anything special. 

"It was," Arielle agrees. She's still smiling, but there's something disappointed in her eyes. "But your heart wasn't in it."

"No," Quentin admits on a sigh. "I - I _do_ like you, Ari. But I don't think... if a kiss felt like that, I don't think that's very promising for more."

Arielle laughs at that. "You certainly know how to flatter a girl."

Quentin flushes, but he relaxes. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, Arielle. But I do like you, I think you're a really good friend."

"So are you," Arielle tells him warmly. "If I'm honest, I knew it was at least a little hopeless. You're not my soulmate. But it was worth a try."

Something about Arielle's words echoes strangely in Quentin's head, but he ignores it for the moment. "It was worth a try," he agrees, smiling. 

* * *

"So," a soft, drawling voice says, "this is the famous peach stand we've heard so much about."

Quentin looks up, and his jaw drops. Arielle recovers faster. "High Queen Margo," she says brightly. "Queen Fen. What a pleasure this is."

Queen Margo smiles. "I'm sure," she says. "You are?"

"My name is Arielle, your majesty," Arielle says. "This is my friend Quentin."

Queen Margo drags her gaze away from Fen to give Quentin a positively invasive once-over. "Quentin," she repeats, like she's rolling the word around in her mouth. "Interesting."

Quentin recovers enough to give the queens a smile and a small bow. "You - You said you'd heard about our stand?" he asks, glancing at Queen Fen and trying not to visibly blanch when she produces a knife from seemingly nowhere and gestures to one of the peaches. 

"How much?" she asks. 

"Er. Two silver," Quentin says, eyes widening when the queen nods and spears the peach with her knife, fishing two silver out of a pouch on her belt and holding them out to him. Quentin takes the money and busies himself putting it away and fussing with the plums on the other side of the stand. The fact that this moves him further away from where Queen Fen is now skillfully shaving the hair off of the peach and cutting it into eighths is a coincidence. 

"Your peaches are the talk of the market," Queen Margo tells them, taking a slice of Queen Fen's peach when she offers it. "Your plums, too. Not to mention the handsome couple who runs the stand."

"Oh!" Arielle blushes. "Your majesties are very kind, but Quentin and I aren't a couple. Quentin is a family friend who works with us on the business."

Queen Margo raises an eyebrow. "Interesting," she says again.

Quentin's blush is brighter than Arielle's, and he studiously avoids Queen Margo's and Queen Fen's gazes, even when Fen asks, "Where is your farm, exactly? We haven't heard anything about your family before."

"Quite a while away, in a little village," Arielle says. "It takes us a full day to travel here and back, but it's worth it. We love it here in Whitespire."

Queen Margo considers Quentin for a moment. "What do you like about it here, Quentin?" she asks.

Quentin almost fumbles the empty box he'd been moving to the back of the stall onto his foot. "Um. It's - It's a beautiful city, your majesty," he answers. "And the people are all - very interesting. I come from a large city myself, and it's... comforting, in a way, to come visit another. A familiar setting."

"Really," Queen Margo says, intrigued. "Which city do you come from?"

Quentin hesitates. "I'm human, your Majesty," he confesses. "I came from Earth a few months ago, with some friends, from a place called New York City. It's one of the largest cities on Earth."

"Wow," Margo says. She looks impressed. "So you're new to Fillory." She smirks. "You should come up to the castle sometime, look around. It's really something."

Quentin blinks. "Oh. Um. That is - a very kind offer, Queen Margo, but my time is all taken by my friends and work for now, I'm afraid."

Disappointment flashes in the High Queen's eyes. "Pity," she says. "If you ever change your mind, the offer will stand."

Quentin manages to drum up a sincere smile. "I appreciate that, your majesty."

Queen Fen reaches over and lays a hand on Queen Margo's shoulder. "We should probably be moving along, darling. You know how Tick gets when we're late."

Queen Margo gives her wife a sweet smile. "Of course," she says. "It was lovely to meet you two." They start to walk away, but Queen Margo hesitates and turns back to fix Quentin with an unreadable look. "Our High King is from Earth, as I'm sure you know," she offers. "I'm sure, if you were to find the time, that he would appreciate the chance to reminisce about his birthplace."

"If I find the time, I will... find some way of contacting the palace, Queen Margo," Quentin promises. He manages to hold himself together until they've gone, disappearing around a corner. He then all but collapses on the nearest upturned box, bracing his elbows on his knees and hanging his head. " _Holy shit._ "

"An invitation to an audience with the High King!" Arielle cries. "And you said _no!_ "

"What the hell would I even talk to him about?" Quentin asks, a little desperate. "He's the fucking _High King,_ Ari. He wouldn't actually be interested in talking to me!"

"The High Queen _sought us out_ to try our peaches, and invited you to Whitespire," Arielle says. "She must think he'd have some interest in you. You're from the same place!"

"I'm not even the only human in this marketplace," Quentin retorts, waving a hand. "I'm sure the peaches were the main reason she and Queen Fen came over, and the invitation was just an - an afterthought."

Arielle shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "Well," she says, "if you're ever lucky enough to have it repeated, say yes. I'd love to get a look inside the castle."

Quentin laughs. "Too bad you're not the human," he agrees. "You would've gone up there with them today, I bet."

"Of course!" Arielle laughs. "Never question it when the monarchy invites you over!"

"Well, I did," Quentin laughs, shaking his head. "Who the hell knows if I'll ever get a chance like that again, but _I_ know that market day isn't over yet."

"Then you'd better put that lovely smile of yours to good use and attract us some customers," Arielle says, grinning.

* * *

"Eliot," Margo calls as she and Fen step into the dining hall for dinner that night. "You'll never guess what we saw today in the market."

Eliot tenses. "The market?" he repeats, wary. "Bambi, you didn't."

"We were wandering around, and heard almost _everyone_ talking about a stall that sold the best peaches and plums," Margo continues blithely. "We had to check it out, obviously. And the peaches were _delicious,_ it turns out. I think they'd make an excellent wine."

"They were really good," Fen agrees. "And the view wasn't bad, either."

Margo smirks. "No, it wasn't. The family friend helping the young lady run the stall was _very_ cute."

"What family friend?" Eliot asks, frowning.

"Very cute little human named Quentin," Margo says, smiling. 

"His friend set us straight when we said we'd heard that there was a couple running the stall," Fen adds with a raised eyebrow. 

Eliot blanches. "It must be someone else," he says. "Maybe the husband didn't come with her this week, and they had to send someone else." He knows it's not true, though; he can feel that his soulmate is close by.

Margo looks unimpressed. "It's the same two every week, according to the market gossip," she points out. 

"And they're not married?" Eliot asks, just in case he misheard that part.

"No, they're not," Margo confirms, her expression softening. 

"Arielle was rather adamant about that point, that he was just a family friend," Fen muses. 

Eliot's whole expression twitches. "Well," he says, "that changes very little."

Margo sighs. "It means he's available, Eliot," she says; it would be gentle if not for the look that accompanies the words. "And he's _human._ He's from Earth. New York City, I believe he said."

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "If you're lying..."

Margo looks offended. "Would I lie about something like this?"

"You would if you thought it'd make me go talk to him," Eliot says. "Which it won't."

"She's not lying," Fen interjects. "He did say he was from New York City. And he's been in Fillory for only a few months."

Eliot shakes his head. "It still doesn't change anything."

Fen rolls her eyes. "Did you forget that soulmates aren't always romantic? He could be your best friend just waiting to meet you."

"Just - Go talk to him, sweetheart," Margo says. "Or at least go to the market more; being close to him will help the calling."

Eliot doesn't look happy about it, but he nods. "Fine," he says. "I'll think about it. And I'll go to the market next week. But I'm not going to talk to him."

* * *

"Hey, um, Penny? Can I talk to you?"

Penny looks utterly disgusted by the idea, but he nods, cautiously. "What about?"

Quentin blows out a breath, sitting on the chair next to Penny's in the nearly-empty tavern. "What... What did it feel like, the call? That led you to Julia and Kady."

Penny blinks. "Are you being serious?" he asks.

Quentin nods. "I don't - Arielle said something that made me curious."

"Okay..." Penny sighs. "It's like a pull. Something in you wants to be somewhere else, wants to lead you to that person. And if you ignore it for long enough, you hear it, too. Like a ringing in your ears."

Quentin bites his lip. "You said it's a pull, does it... I don't know, does it get worse if your soulmate is nearby?"

"Uh, yeah," Penny says, like Quentin is being particularly slow. "Your soul literally wants you to find them. If you're close, of course it's going to get stronger."

Quentin nods. "Okay. Yeah, that's... I think that's what I've been feeling, every time we go to Whitespire market."

Penny's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Fuck," he says. " _You_ have a soulmate?"

"It's only bad when we're at the market, and I - I thought it was my anxiety making the ringing in my ears happen? But I've heard it here, too. And I keep feeling like I need to go back to Whitespire. But when I'm there, I feel like I need to... keep going."

"Then why are you still fucking stood here?" Penny demands. "Get going!"

"How the hell am I supposed to find them, though?" Quentin asks, a little desperately. "How do I know I found them?"

"Just follow the pull," Penny tells him. "Once you find them, you'll know."

Quentin sighs. "I - I can't. Not by myself. But the next time we go to the market, I'll keep an eye out. Pay attention to it." He hesitates for a moment before asking, "Is it... worth it? All the - the worrying, and the searching?"

At that, Penny finally smiles. "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "It's the best fucking thing that will ever happen to you."

* * *

”I still think you should just go talk to him,” Fen says mildly, ducking around a group of shoppers in the market place. “You’ve been doing this whole… What was the word, subterfuge? The whole sneaking-around thing for weeks.”

"I don't want to talk to him, Fen," Eliot says. "I just want to look at his ridiculous face long enough that this ridiculous ringing leaves me alone for another week."

Fen rolls her eyes. "Which I still think is a stupid idea, but fine. We're almost there, but I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that."

"No," Eliot agrees. Even though he knows this journey will be fruitless, there's still something exhilarating about it. "I can feel him."

"It's not good to keep teasing both of your souls like this," Fen says quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the crowd. "It won't end well."

"You don't know that," Eliot says, though as a native Fillorian she likely knows much better than him.

Fen just sighs. "Go be creepy, Eliot," she says, not unkindly. "I'll keep a lookout."

* * *

Quentin. Eliot knows his name now, and that makes it so much worse. He wouldn't even have to walk up to him; he could just call out his name, and have Quentin come to him. What would happen if he did? Would Quentin light up like the sun, like he does whenever Arielle laughs with him? Or would it dim that brightness, if Quentin knew exactly who the universe has saddled him with? Eliot thinks he knows the answer, and he hates himself.

Just like he does every week, he lingers at the edge of the crowd long enough that the back of his neck starts to tingle with the weight of the gaze being levelled at him by the suspicious old lady who runs the textiles stall at the end of Quentin's row. She definitely knows who he is, and he wouldn't be surprised if she knew why he's here, too. The thought would be enough to send him running for the hills if he could stay away for that long. He can't. But what he can do is look his fill, let his soul ease itself with Quentin's proximity, and leave knowing that he can survive another week.

On his way back through the market he passes the stall of a fortune teller. Her pitch is decorated with sparkly crystals and trinkets, supposedly charmed to bring the buyer luck or some such nonsense. Eliot knows better than to buy into it, but he slows as he walks by despite himself, captivated by the way the sunlight glitters over her wares. He hesitates when he realises the woman is watching him, and he gives her a tight smile. "Good afternoon," he says, and makes to go on his way.

"Is it, your majesty?" The women's eyes are sharp as she studies Eliot, her words deceptively mild. "When someone torments themselves the way that you do?"

Eliot tenses. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "I certainly don't know who you're calling 'your majesty'."

"A liar to others as well as yourself," she hums. "Lies serve no one well, in the end. Neither does unnecessary pain."

Eliot steps closer. "What do you want?" he asks.

"To pass along a word of advice, to keep Fillory and her High King healthy and happy," she answers, meeting Eliot's gaze steadily. "You can't heal from pain you continue to put yourself through, knowingly or unknowingly. A wound must stop bleeding before it can heal - the knife must be removed and _kept_ away, not plunged into the body again and again."

Eliot blinks. "The knife must be removed," he repeats. "That might actually be good advice."

"Of course it is," the woman scoffs. "I'm the one giving it. But the real question is: Will you take it in the spirit it's given, or will you interpret it the way you want to hear it?"

Eliot gives her a sharp smile. "You're psychic," he says. "You should know."

* * *

When the first frost hits, Quentin and Arielle make their last trip to Whitespire for the season. It’s nice, bittersweet, and Quentin is sad to say goodbye to several of their neighbors, people he’d come to call friend over the months. He’s a little confused when Melinda says she expects to see him soon with good news, but shrugs it off. Melinda’s always been a bit odd, acting like she knows things that others don’t. Maybe she does - age begets experience, right? - but Quentin has no idea what she could be talking about.

In their village, Quentin stays busy helping out around the farm. He tends to the animals with the help of Arielle’s youngest brother, helps Arielle and her mother make jams and preserves and start new batches of cider from the last of their harvest. It keeps him distracted from the growing feeling that he needs to be somewhere else, that he needs to go back to Whitespire, to the market and farther - 

Quentin ignores it until the day the ringing in his ears is so loud that he can’t hear himself think.

He goes to Julia, first - he hasn’t spent nearly as much time with her as he would’ve liked over the past months. Quentin thinks he knows what path he’s going to take, but… He still needs to talk to his best friend before he commits. He finds Julia at her clinic near the end of the day and waits until she’s done with her last patient before he gives her a wave and a smile. “Hey, Jules.”

"Q!" Julia pulls him in for a big hug and then pulls back to look at him. "How are you?"

"I could be better," Quentin says. "I... _will_ be better, soon. How're you?"

"I'm great," Julia says, and she's - fuck, she's _glowing_. "I have some news, actually. Do you want to sit?"

"Sure," Quentin says, eyebrow rising. "What's going on?"

Julia smiles, and she looks like her body can barely contain her joy. "I'm pregnant," she says. "You're going to be an uncle!"

Quentin blinks, and then his excitement matches Julia's. "Are you serious?" he demands, taking Julia's hands in his. 

Julia can't hold back her grin - and why should she want to? "Yes!" she laughs. "We weren't trying, exactly, but-- yes! We're having a baby!"

"Jules! That's amazing," Quentin laughs, wrapping her up in a tight hug. "Any idea how far along?"

"A couple months," Julia tells him, still beaming. "It's still a little early to be telling people, but I just couldn't wait any longer."

"I'm so happy for you," Quentin says, honest. "And Kady. And I _guess_ Penny, too."

Julia giggles. "He did have some hand in making your niece or nephew, you know."

Quentin makes a face. "I don't need that image in my head," he complains good- naturedly. 

Julia doesn't look even remotely apologetic, but she does change the subject. "I'm sorry, you came to talk to me about something, didn't you?"

Quentin nods. "Mostly just... hoping you'd tell me if I was planning on doing something stupid." He takes a deep breath, and then confesses, "I have a soulmate. And I think I'm going to follow the pull."

"What?" Julia explodes. "Q! That's amazing!"

"It's fucking _terrifying,_ " Quentin says with a helpless little laugh. "But... It's also kind of amazing, yeah. I'm pretty sure they're in Whitespire, somewhere? The pull eased every time Ari and I went to the market, and it's been getting worse ever since market season ended."

"So you're going back," Julia says. "To find them? That's so exciting!"

"I - Yeah," Quentin says, smiling. "I am. I can't take it, the way it kept getting stronger and fading, and I - I'm curious. I want to know who the fuck the universe thinks is a good match for me - or that _I'm_ a good match for."

Julia softens almost instantly. "Someone great," she says. "Someone perfect, Q. They're going to be perfect for you."

"I really hope so," Quentin says quietly, squeezing Julia's hand. "I guess I'll find out, though. I'll pack tonight, leave tomorrow."

"And you'll send word as soon as you find them?" Julia asks. "And then bring them straight back here?"

"I'll send word," Quentin promises. "But they probably have a life in Whitespire, I can't ask them to leave that with no notice even for a visit."

"They're your soulmate," Julia laughs. "They'll drop everything."

"Maybe I'll be the one to drop everything," Quentin points out, grinning. "But I have to find them first before I can ask them to come back here and meet my family."

Julia grins at him. "Then you'd better get packing."

* * *

Eliot is fine the week after market season ends. Market day comes and goes unobserved, and Eliot is fine. The pull is a little stronger, the ringing in his ears a little louder, but the changes are barely noticeable. Easily ignored. He's fine.

The week after that, he's less fine. The pull is strong, constant, urgent; the ringing is louder than he's ever heard it. Margo says it's because he's been teasing his soul with Quentin's proximity all summer; now that he's gone, his soul is suffering doubly for it. Eliot reminds himself of the fortune teller's words, and strengthens his resolve. His soul will heal without Quentin travelling to Whitespire to reopen the wound every week, and everything will go back to normal.

Except that it doesn't. The weeks drag on, and each day it gets harder to ignore the pull. The ringing is louder than it's ever been, and the need to get out, to start moving and not stop until he finds Quentin is almost impossible to resist. Eliot starts neglecting his duties as High King. Eventually, he stops leaving his quarters, stops leaving his bed. Margo and Fen and Tick take turns yelling and begging and demanding, but Eliot doesn't listen. He can barely hear them even if he wanted to listen. He buries his head under a pillow and tries to block it all out. It can't get much worse. If it does, he might explode.

And then...

And then it starts to get better. Eliot wakes up one morning surprised to find that he'd slept, because he can't remember the last time the ringing and constant yearning allowed him to do that. He's even more surprised to find that the pull isn't as persistent as it has been. Could it be? Is it easing?

The next day is even better, as is the day after that. Eliot finally feels well enough to get out of bed, but of course his fellow monarchs and even the staff have more or less given up on him by now. He gets up, washes and dresses, even takes the time to curl his hair, and is ready just in time for breakfast. He can't wait to see the look on Margo's face when she realises he was right.

* * *

Quentin takes what feels like his first deep breath in _months_ when he steps through the gates into Whitespire. The castle is looming in the distance, and Quentin can feel the pull trying to tug him further into the city like an impatient toddler, but he takes a moment to prepare himself. 

Then, he steps forward.

He keeps moving, following the pull deeper into the city, past the marketplace and farther - until he's finally standing in front of one of the gates to Castle Whitespire itself. He hesitates before approaching one of the guards, a friendly-looking(if also stupid-looking, in that ridiculous uniform), man who Quentin eventually learns is named Todd. Quentin tells him what he's doing, and as soon as he mentions the pull, Todd's expression softens, and he and his fellow guard cast what they tell Quentin is a truth spell - one that determines if he's actually following the pull, or using it as an excuse to get into the castle, because that's apparently a concern. The two guards confer for a moment before the other one finally rolls his eyes and gestures for Quentin to come closer, telling him that Todd will be escorting him through the castle.

Todd looks incredibly excited to go with Quentin, and Quentin's come this far; he isn't about to give up now. He thanks the other guard and follows Todd. Once they're through the gates, Quentin pauses for a moment, wonders if he should have sent word ahead - Queen Margo _had_ invited him up to the castle... But that had been months ago, now. And Quentin still wasn't sure if the offer was genuine. No need to bother the High Queen with his visit, when he's probably only going to follow the pull into the kitchens or somewhere else where the monarchs don't go and find someone who had made weekly trips to the market in the course of their duties.

But, because Quentin's luck has always been fickle, they run into High Queen Margo in the very first hallway they enter.

"Holy fuck," Queen Margo breathes, her eyes wide. "Quentin? Peach-selling Quentin, in _my_ castle?"

"Um," Quentin says eloquently, his own eyes just as wide. "Yes, uh. Your majesty?"

"High Queen Margo," Todd says, managing to somehow sound both respectful and abashed at the same time. "I was escorting him on his search for his soulmate."

Queen Margo raises an eyebrow. "Really," she drawls. "Well-- Tim, is it?"

"Uhh, Todd, your majesty."

"Whatever. I'll take over from here."

Quentin blinks. "That's very kind of you, but - "

"But nothing," Queen Margo interrupts. "I insist. It's taken you far too long to take up my invitation to visit the castle, and High King Eliot has been dying to meet you."

"You were ser - " Quentin stops, clears his throat. "If you insist, then... I guess I shouldn't argue with the High Queen?"

Queen Margo gives him a sharp smile that does nothing to reassure him. "I knew you were smart as well as cute," she says. "Todd, you're dismissed. We've got it from here, right, Quentin?"

Todd looks exactly as reassured as Quentin feels, but he apparently knows better than to argue with the High Queen. "Of course, your majesty." He disappears back down the hallway, leaving Quentin and Queen Margo alone. 

Quentin lasts all of five seconds before asking, "Why would High King Eliot want to speak to me?"

Queen Margo takes Quentin's arm and starts walking. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Because he doesn't know me?" Quentin suggests, following the queen's directions. "I'm not royalty, or even... that interesting."

"Why don't you let me worry about what Eliot finds interesting?" Queen Margo suggests. "He's been a little under the weather lately, but he's feeling better today; he's listening to our subjects' petitions this morning, and I know he'd be glad to take a break."

Maybe it's because he's friends with Julia, but something about Queen Margo's words suggests that she's _planning_ something. Still, who is he to protest? Maybe High King Eliot will believe him when he says it was all the queen's idea. "Alright," he says. "Um. Lead the way, then, your majesty."

* * *

Margo leaves Quentin in one of the rooms that they usually reserve for meeting with visiting dignitaries, and makes her way quickly to the throne room. She waits until the current petitioner has finished before giving the gathered people a winning smile and bending down to murmur in Eliot's ear, "One of the visitors today wants to meet with us in private for personal reasons."

"Can't you go?" Eliot asks, already waving over his next petitioner. "I'm on a roll, here."

"They need to talk to both of us," Margo insists, giving the next petitioner a smile that keeps them in place. "Besides, you've been here for hours. You can't push yourself so hard so soon."

"I feel better than I have in weeks," Elior argues. "Besides, there are still plenty of people here. I can't just walk away."

"Of course you can." Margo straightens, puts on her best apologetic smile, and addresses the crowd. "I'm terribly sorry, everyone, but I'm afraid I have to steal the High King to attend to some important, urgent business. Queen Fen will be along shortly to continue hearing your petitions. In the meantime, I'll have refreshments brought in."

Eliot fights the urge to roll his eyes, but he keeps up appearances long enough to make his own apologies and smile as Margo all but drags him from the room. "All right," he says as soon as they're alone. "What the hell does this person have to say that's so important?"

Margo just smiles, waving down two servants and sending one to the kitchens and the other to fetch Fen. "You'll see. Come on, he's not far."

Eliot follows Margo until she stops in front of the door to one of their nicer reception rooms, and he raises an eyebrow. "Just who is in there?"

Margo waves a hand dismissively. "Someone I invited here months ago who finally took me up on the offer. Come on, in."

Eliot sticks his tongue out at her, but he opens the door and lets himself in, only to feel the bottom drop out of his stomach when he sees who is inside. "Oh, _fuck_."

"That's not an encouraging start," Quentin says, a nervous, wry twist to his lips. 

"Have fun, you two - you've got a lot to talk about!" Margo calls; Eliot has just enough time to see the shit-eating grin on her face before the door shuts - and locks. 

Eliot wants to rip his hair out; he closes his eyes instead, like not being able to see Quentin will somehow cancel out the way his soul is fucking _singing_ at his proximity. "I would like to state for the record that I hate everything right now," he says, very calmly. "Especially that meddling harpy, Margo."

"Oh, um. Good, so I don't have to say it was all her idea," Quentin says; he sounds a little dazed, and Eliot can hear what sounds like an aborted step. "So, this, uh - This might sound crazy, and I swear this wasn't where I thought I'd end up, but. Do - Are you hearing like, kind of a musical tone right now?"

"Oh, fuck," Eliot says again. He still doesn't open his eyes. "Yes, I can hear it, of course I can. Congratulations, we're soulmates."

"Oh." Quentin sounds rather dazed. "Okay, well. For the record, I thought I was gonna find my soulmate like, in the kitchen or something? I figured they were probably a servant when the pull kept going once I got back to Whitespire."

"Yeah," Eliot scoffs. "Chance would be a fine thing."

Quentin hesitates, and this time he does take a step forward. "I'm kind of getting the feeling that you're not as excited about this as I am," he says slowly. "I mean, you haven't looked at me since Margo shoved you in."

"That's Queen Margo to you," Eliot snipes, but he takes the point and opens his eyes.

Quentin looks appropriately abashed. "Queen Margo," he concedes, tilting his head. "And you're... the High King. King Eliot."

"The one and only," Eliot sighs. "And you're Quentin."

Quentin blinks, clearly thrown. "You know my name?"

"Yes," Eliot says. "Margo tracked you down, because she's very annoying, and came back to me with the results."

"I _knew_ that visit wasn't just for the peaches!" Quentin exclaims. Then he frowns. "Wait - How did she know to find me in the first place?"

"Because I made the mistake of telling her where to find you."

Quentin's frown deepens. "You... knew where to find me? But why didn't you say anything to me?"

"Because I didn't want to find you!" Eliot snaps. "I didn't want to be anywhere near you, but the stupid pull wouldn't let me ignore you when you were in Whitespire every week."

Quentin rocks back on his feet, but doesn't quite take a step back. "What?"

Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't want a soulmate," he says. "I'm sorry, but I just don't have the time or the energy."

"What the hell are you - It's a soulmate connection, you can't just ignore it!" Quentin protests. 

"I can do what I like," Eliot says. "Now that we've met I'm sure the pull will stop, and we can go back to our lives."

Quentin scoffs. "Okay, I'm human and I've been here for less than a year, but even I know that's not how it works. It'll come back eventually, worse than before if the stories are true."

"Then what do you suggest?" Eliot asks. "If you're expecting me to just drop everything and come live on your little farm with you, you can think again. I'm a _king_."

"Of course I'm not fucking expecting that," Quentin snaps, arms crossed over his chest and glaring at Eliot. "I wouldn't expect that from anyone! I followed the pull because it finally got overwhelming and I wanted to know who my soulmate is and get to know them."

"Well, you've met me," he says. "Well done. You can go now."

Quentin's glare intensifies. "Yeah, I've met you. Still don't know you, though, except for the fact that you kind of seem like an asshole, _your majesty._ But considering I'm not that great at first impressions, either, I still want to get to know _you,_ not High King Eliot."

Eliot laughs. "You don't want to," he says. "Trust me. You're better off going back to your farm and that pretty girl."

Quentin scowls. "Don't talk about Arielle that way," he snaps. "And I think I'll be the judge of whether or not I want to get to know my own fucking soulmate."

"And I can't judge the same thing for myself?"

Quentin shrugs. "Sure you can. But I came all the way back to Whitespire to find you, and it's a full day's travel back in winter. I don't have anything pressing to do back home, so I'm sure you won't mind if I spend some time around here. I'm sure Queen Margo won't."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Do whatever you want," he says, and turns to the door. It's barely any effort at all to spell it open, and he stalks through it without looking back at Quentin.

Margo watches him storm past her with something like shock on her face. "Well, that wasn't the plan," she complains. "What the fuck happened?"

"He's a dick who insists he doesn't need a soulmate and that I should go back to my 'little farm,'" Quentin informs her, resisting the urge to flip off Eliot's retreating back. "I'm not, though. Going back, that is. I can send a letter letting my family know I found my soulmate, but I'm not going back, not when the pull will just get worse again."

Margo actually stamps her feet. "Goddamn it," she snaps. "Stubborn little cock. You're damn right you're not going back; you're going to stay right here in Whitespire until he removes his head from his ass."

Quentin actually smiles at that. "I can stay in town," he offers. "I'm sure there's somewhere I can get a room."

"Well, if you don't want to stay in the castle, at least let me put you up in one of the nicer places in the city," Margo says. "You're a guest of the crown now, sweetie; you gotta do it in style."

Quentin hesitates, glancing at Margo. "You’d really let me stay in the castle?"

"Of course," Margo says, and she doesn't say it, but Quentin hears the _dipshit_ loud and clear anyway. "You're the High King's soulmate."

"I'm also just a farmer, as he so politely pointed out," Quentin says wryly, then sighs. "I brought my things with me into the castle, so if there's a room, I can put them there. And if I could get some paper and a pen, too?"

"Whatever you need," Margo says, already flagging down a young girl who seems absolutely mortified to be being addressed by the High Queen. "Get Quentin here set up in our nicest guest quarters. He'll be joining King Eliot and I for dinner, but make sure you feed him before that. And give him anything he asks for. He's very important." She turns back to Quentin then, and gives him a bright smile. "I'm going to throttle the king."

* * *

Quentin follows the servant Margo asked to escort him to his room, asking if she could bring him some things to write with when she came back with food and thanking her before settling in. His room is large, the bed _ridiculously_ comfortable, and there's more than enough space for the few things he'd brought with him from the village. He thanks the girl - Faith - again when she brings a simple meal of stew and bread along with his requested writing materials, and settles in to eat and write. 

He lets everything out on the page - including the fact that _the High King_ is his soulmate - but requests that Julia keep this to herself and her soulmates. Quentin doesn't want news getting around faster than it has to, he says, and he wants a chance to try to convince Eliot that he really does want to get to know him before the rumor mill decides something else. He signs off with a reminder to take care of herself, and a request to let Arielle and her family know that he'll be gone for a longer visit than he'd thought. 

The stew is delicious, as is the bread, and Quentin has enough time to lie down and take a short nap before Faith and another servant - a man who introduces himself as Benedict - come in and help him into an outfit that Queen Margo had sent over for dinner. It's nothing _fancy,_ but it's still much more than what Quentin's used to wearing, and he's glad of Benedict's help. Faith and Benedict lead him through the halls to the dining room, where Queen Margo and Queen Fen are already waiting. 

"I almost didn't believe it," Fen muses, giving Quentin a grin. "But here you are."

"Here I am," Quentin agrees, sitting in the chair he's directed to. "Thank you, Queen Margo, for the room, by the way. It's beautiful, and very comfortable."

"Oh, fuck off with all that 'Queen' bullshit," Queen Margo says. "Just call me Margo, Gods."

Quentin flushes, but offers Margo a tentative smile. "I appreciate you putting me up in the castle. Did you... happen to tell Eliot I was staying here? While you were, um. Throttling him?"

A door opens behind Quentin, followed by a sharp intake of breath, and Margo grins. "Nope," she says. "Surprise!"

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you," Eliot demands as he stalks past Quentin to take his place at the table. "I _told_ you--"

"You told me to send him back where he belongs," Margo says sweetly. "Well, while he's my personal guest, he belongs right here."

Eliot shoots her a sharp look. "Don't push me, Bambi."

"Don't push _me_ , El."

Quentin _desperately_ wants to know the backstory behind Eliot's nickname for Margo, but luckily Fen speaks up before he can shove his foot in his mouth. "He's my guest, too," she says, giving Eliot a near-unreadable look. "Have to make sure he's good enough for you."

"He's _not--_ " Eliot cuts himself off, makes a fist that he presses briefly to his mouth. "That is not the point, Fen. The point is that I asked you--" He looks at Quentin; "--to leave."

Quentin somehow finds the guts to raise an eyebrow. "No, you said for me to do whatever I want when I said I wasn't planning on leaving. What I want is to stay here and get to know the castle and Margo and Fen better, and see if you're _actually_ as big of a dick as you're acting like."

Eliot smirks at him. "Oh, you have no idea."

Quentin's nose scrunches up, but before he can say anything, Fen interrupts with a cheerful, "We're all assholes here, Quentin. That's how we're able to survive being monarchs."

Eliot acts as though he hasn't heard her. "You're wasting your time," he tells Quentin. "I'm not interested, cupcake."

Quentin shrugs. "It's my time to waste. Besides, Ari and Jules would kill me if I passed up an opportunity to explore Castle Whitespire _again._ "

"Who?" Margo asks, intrigued.

”Arielle and Julia,” Quentin says brightly, perking up. “Arielle’s family owns the orchard - you actually met Arielle, she and I were running the stall this season. Julia has been my best friend since we were kids; we came from Earth together, along with Kady, my friend and Julia’s girlfriend, when Penny found the two of them. They’re all soulmates, and Penny is… What did he call it, a Traveler? He’s psychic, I know that much.”

”A Traveler?” Fen asks, intrigued. “And he felt the pull across worlds?”

Quentin nods. “Yeah. He said he just… knew it wasn’t anywhere in Fillory, so he finally just let the pull bring him to wherever it needed to be. Turned out, that was Julia and Kady’s apartment in the middle of the night. We were hungover after celebrating Julia finally quitting her awful office job.”

Eliot frowns. "So your best friend and her girlfriend found their soulmate and you just dropped everything on Earth to follow them to Fillory?"

Quentin shrugs. "I didn't have a lot on Earth to drop, not after my dad died," he says. "My family was small, and we weren't exactly close. I was closer to Julia and Kady than I ever was to them."

Something in Eliot's gaze softens almost imperceptibly. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says. "Not that it makes any difference to you how sorry I am."

"It's still appreciated," Quentin says, giving Eliot a slight smile. "But yeah, I didn't have a whole lot on Earth holding me there, and neither did Julia or Kady. We kinda... made ourselves our own family."

"And how does their soulmate feel about this?" Eliot asks.

"Penny's a dick," Quentin says matter-of-factly. "But he loves Jules and Kady, and he didn't kick up a fuss when they said they weren't coming without me. We've... Well, we'll never be best friends, but we've reached an understanding."

Eliot looks like he doesn't know if he's impressed or not. "How diplomatic," he says.

Quentin laughs. "He said one extra person wasn't that big of a burden to bring back here. We still end up insulting each other more often than not whenever our group meets up."

"That's cute, though," Margo cuts in. "Isn't that cute, El?"

Eliot's expression shutters.

Fen rolls her eyes, and Quentin changes the subject. "How did you become High King?" he asks. "Arielle and Penny said there was a period of like, almost a hundred years where there wasn't a High King or even a court."

"It was actually Fen's father's idea," Margo says. "He has a blade, it only draws the blood of the rightful High King."

Quentin's eyes widen. "Really? That's... different."

"We thought it would be funny to test El out," Margo says. "We never thought it would actually be him."

”What are the odds, huh?” Quentin asks, smiling. “Only so many humans in Fillory… I wonder if the ones who find their way here are meant to? Like, to find their purpose.”

"Don't get stars in your eyes because of my fluke," Eliot says. "Destiny is bullshit."

Quentin rolls his eyes so hard he swears he sees the back of his head, and Fen snickers. "Alright you two, knock it off. Dinner's ready to be served."

* * *

Dinner that night is a somewhat stilted affair, as Eliot still seems vaguely hostile towards Quentin. Margo and Fen keep them distracted, though, and afterwards Quentin retires to his room. 

He spends the next couple of days exploring Whitespire, occasionally accompanied by Margo or Fen, but most often Benedict or Faith. He gets a reply from Julia, who is absolutely shocked that the High King is his soulmate, but promises to keep it quiet. She does say that she's worried about his attitude towards Quentin, and even suggests that it may be better to reject the bond and come back to the village. She does it gently, of course, and Quentin's not even mad - he would suggest the same thing if their positions were reversed. He promises to be careful, and that he'll keep the option in mind, but he wants to be able to say that he tried everything he could before giving up. 

On his fourth day, Quentin sets out from the library, where he'd been reading some of the fascinating historical accounts, in search of a reading nook. The library is comfortable - of course it is, the whole damn _castle_ is comfortable - but he's always liked to curl up in a corner somewhere away from the rest of the world to read. He's honestly not expecting to find Eliot in one of the nooks that Benedict pointed out to him the other day as a good place to get some privacy, and he immediately takes a step back. "Oh. I'm sorry, I was just - Benedict said this was a good place for some privacy, and I was looking for somewhere away from everyone else to read..." His sentence drifts off, and he does his best to ignore the slight heat in his cheeks. "I'll just keep searching."

Against all odds, however, Eliot shakes his head. "No," he says, "it's fine. Sit with me." He gestures to the bottle of wine beside him. "I'll conjure you a glass."

Quentin hesitates for a moment before he settles into the space left beside Eliot, watching him quietly until the glass has been conjured and wine has been poured. "Hiding from all the kingly duties?"

"Always," Eliot says. He clinks his glass against Quentin's and takes a long drink. "What are you hiding from?"

"The world at large," Quenton says, laughing softly. "Being a clinically depressed and anxious introvert is hard sometimes."

Eliot blinks. "Really," he says. "I didn't know that."

Quentin shrugs. "It's not like I go shouting it from the rooftops. Spent a total of almost sixteen months since middle school in a psych ward, checked myself in each time I started thinking 'what's the point' and neither Jules nor my meds could help pull me out of my own head."

"Shit," Eliot says. He drains his glass. "You know what I really miss about home?"

"What?" Quentin asks, humoring him; this is the longest conversation they’ve had since Eliot switched to mostly ignoring Quentin whenever they met. 

"Fucking cigarettes," Eliot tells him. "What I wouldn't give for a smoke right now."

Quentin outright laughs at that. "No tobacco in Fillory?" he asks, grinning. "I knew they didn't have coffee, but how can they _not_ have something to smoke?"

"Oh, they have plenty to smoke," Eliot laughs. "But nothing quite hits the same spot, you know?"

"Yeah," Quentin hums, taking another sip of his wine. "Just like none of their wine is quite as good as the stuff from Earth, I guess."

"Exactly," Eliot agrees, already pouring his next glass. "Do you need topping up?"

Quentin hesitates for a moment, considering, before he nods and holds his glass out. "Sure."

Eliot pours. "So," he says. "I'm a miserable bastard and you're depressed. No plans to head home yet?"

"Nope," Quentin says, popping the 'p'. "I'm working my way through the library - reading firsthand historical accounts is _far_ more interesting than wasting time in my rooms or the tavern. Not a whole lot to do in winter besides take care of the animals and make cider."

Eliot hums. "Learning anything interesting?" he asks.

"I'm kind of focusing on the Far Flung Isles right now," Quentin says, visibly perking up. "Accounts from people who visited them, traders, explorers, that sort of thing. There's not a lot known about them in my village beyond what's common knowledge."

Eliot laughs. "You're going to go back a real know-it-all."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Hopefully without the attitude of one. But I'm not planning to go back for a while yet; Margo and Fen invited me to stay for as long as I like, and I don't have any obligations until the holidays."

"Right," Eliot says. "Because you're not sticking around for any other reason, except that the queens of Fillory invited you to."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "I figured the other reason was a given, considering who I'm talking to right now."

Eliot visibly winces into his wine glass, and takes a breath. "Maybe we shouldn't talk," he says.

Something's clearly changed, but Quentin isn't sure _what._ "O... kay," he says, lifting his glass and taking a sip for lack of anything better to do. 

Eliot smiles, and the next thing Quentin knows, his wine glass is being gently extracted from his grip so that both can be placed on the floor, and Eliot is leaning into his space. "I'm sure we can find something more... interesting to do."

Quentin freezes; his eyes are wide as he stares at Eliot, but he doesn't move - not towards Eliot, but not away from him, either. "Things..." He swallows, hard. "Things like what?"

Eliot smiles at him. "Maybe we should relocate to my rooms."

Quentin blinks, his brows drawing together as he frowns. "What?"

"Come on," Eliot says. "You must have thought about it."

"Well, yeah, I mean - I'm not blind," Quentin says, still frowning. "But this is a little out of left field."

"Is it?" Eliot asks. "You're here for a reason. Maybe this isn't exactly it, but it might be enough to... satisfy your curiosity."

Quentin's eyes widen, and this time he does lean back from Eliot, though he doesn't make any other move. "Are you serious?"

"Why not?" Eliot asks. "I'll blow your mind. Literally, if you want. Your life will retain its sparkle for decades."

Quentin's jaw drops, and his mouth works silently for a moment before his expression morphs into something furious. In one movement, he slides off of the bench, summons his still-full wine glass into his hand, and throws the contents in Eliot's face. "I cannot _believe_ you," he snarls. "After every goddamn thing I - You can go fuck yourself, _your majesty._ " Turning on his heel, Quentin picks a random hallway and stalks off, leaving a wine-soaked High King behind him. 

* * *

When Eliot finds Margo several hours later, he's freshly showered, newly sober and fairly shame-faced. "So," he says, lounging against the arm of his throne like he hasn't a care in the world, "I might have fucked up."

Margo raises an eyebrow. "What did you do now?"

"I may have propositioned Quentin."

It's really quite impressive how unimpressed Margo looks. " _May_ have?"

Eliot bites his tongue. "Definitely did."

One eyebrow rises. "And?"

"He threw a glass of wine in my face."

Margo looks shocked for all of two seconds before she breaks into laughter, burying her face in her hands. It takes her several moments to get out, " _Quentin_ threw wine in your face?"

Eliot's jaw tightens. "That's what I said, Bambi."

"Good for him," she snickers. "I knew I liked him."

Eliot gives her a sour look. "All right," he says, "we all know you're Team Quentin, but I thought you'd have my back, here."

"El, honey, what did you _expect_ him to do?" Margo asks, her laughter finally subsiding. "He's not been secretive about the fact that he wants to get to know _you,_ not your dick."

"Well I don't want that," Eliot says, defensive. "So I thought we could compromise."

"By doing what? Fucking a couple times a year and ignoring each other for the rest of it?"

"Honestly, I was hoping he wouldn't come back at all."

" _Eliot,_ " Margo sighs, tone vastly disapproving. "No wonder he rejected you like that."

"I know," Eliot snaps. "I'm a fucking idiot, I'm here to admit that. I just don't know what to do about it."

"You could always try a genuine apology," Margo says gently. 

Eliot winces. "That sounds painful."

"For you, it probably will be," Margo says without mercy. "And you can't just... go back to ignoring him, El. Do you _really_ want to go back to what the last few weeks were like before he showed up?"

"No," Eliot admits, though it clearly pains him to do so. "I just want it all to go away."

Margo's expression softens. "I know. And you know I only want you happy and healthy. The best you might be able to do is work out some kind of... visitation arrangement with Quentin."

Eliot sighs. "But that isn't going to be an option if I don't fix this," he says. "Right. Guess I'd better go track him down."

"Maybe make sure he doesn't have any wine in his hand," Margo teases, reaching out to pull Eliot in so she can press a kiss to his cheek before he leaves. 

* * *

Eliot follows the pull right to Quentin, but he doesn't really need it; he finds Quentin right where he expects to, in the library. "Hey," he says, feeling more than a little awkward. "Can we talk?"

Quentin looks up, frowns when he sees Eliot, and marks his page before closing the book in his hands. "What about?"

Eliot just opts for honesty. "About the colossal asshole I was earlier."

Quentin lifts an eyebrow. "You were an ass," he agrees, tone even. 

"Well, I'm here to apologise," Eliot says. "I'm sorry. I should have known better; I _do_ know better."

Quentin's expression shifts into one of clear shock, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "I - I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting an apology. I was kind of expecting you to work even harder at ignoring me, actually."

Eliot winces. "It's been pointed out to me that that wouldn't work out so well, for either of us."

"Margo?" Quentin asks, lips twitching into what could almost be a smile. 

Eliot does smile. "Who else?"

Quentin laughs, a short huff of air with barely any sound. "I've known her for less than a week but even I know it's always better to listen to her," he says, just shy of teasing. "Still. Apology accepted."

Eliot looks surprised, but relieved. "Maybe we could..." He clears his throat. "Maybe we should get to know each other, just a little."

Quentin's eyes widen, and he searches Eliot's expression intently, something... a little like guarded hope in his expression when he finally speaks. "I'd like that."

Eliot nods, takes a breath, and comes a little closer. "What are you reading?" he asks. "Can I join you?"

Quentin nods, shifting so that there's room beside him on the couch and he can show Eliot his book. "It's a history of Fillory - I just reached the part where this castle was being built."

"How long ago was that?" Eliot asks, curling up beside Quentin. "I should know far more about the history of this country than I actually do."

"Around three hundred years ago," Quentin says. "Apparently the dwarves based its design off of another castle that a goddess had created - Castle Blackspire. That one's been lost, though. The author thinks maybe it’s tucked away in another dimension."

Eliot laughs. "How do you lose a castle?"

"Well you lose records of it," Quentin says, grinning. "The author speculates that maybe the gods hid it on purpose for some reason, but it's not considered anything more than a legend now."

"I had no idea," Eliot admits. "I'm an excellent High King, as I'm sure you can tell."

Quentin laughs. "You're a good king in the ways that matter; you have people for the more boring, tiny details."

Eliot doesn't quite know what to do with that. He tries for a smile. "How long have you been in Fillory for?" he teases. "You know a lot about it."

"Less than a year, but Kady always said that Jules and I were nerds," Quentin says, smiling down at the book. "I like reading, and it's always been easy to retain information I read."

"Kady's right, then," Eliot says.

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. "Yeah, well, it's something I've made my peace with. I was a philosophy major at one point, then switched to English. I was actually in the process of trying to find a teaching job when Penny showed up."

"Wow," Eliot says. "And now you're a peach farmer."

Quentin's smile disappears, and he raises an eyebrow. "It's not like there were a lot of options for someone who literally just appeared in the middle of town one day. I still want to teach, but I can't exactly teach the standard Earth curriculum here."

Eliot raises a hand in surrender. "All right," he says. "I wasn't judging. Much."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but lets it slide for the moment.

* * *

When Quentin finds the note on his bedside table, he's first suspicious - how the hell did Benedict get into his room without waking him up? - but when he recognizes the handwriting, he knows what must have happened. " _Penny,_ " he sighs, reaching for the note and opening it, scanning Julia's handwriting quickly - and then all but throwing himself out of bed. He gets dressed in a whirlwind, practically flies down to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast and ask Benedict to let Margo and Eliot know he's gone to the city for the day, and is gone before Benedict can ask any questions.

He finds his way to the tavern quickly, and bursts through the door, scanning the mid-morning crowd quickly, eagerly, until he spots Julia in a corner. "Jules!" he calls, lifting a hand as he beams, moving towards her.

"Q!" Julia is laughing as she gets to her feet, and she meets Quentin halfway for a big hug. "I'm so glad you could make it. You don't mind me dropping by, do you?"

"Absolutely not," Quentin says with complete honesty, pulling Julia in for another hug. "Gods, I've missed you. How is everyone?"

"Great," Julia tells him. "It's not the same without you, though. Let's sit and you can tell me everything."

Quentin smiles and follows Julia back to her table, and settles into the chair next to her. "So, you hurling your guts out every morning yet?"

"Oh my god, you have no idea," Julia groans. "It's so disgusting. Where's my glow?"

"It's coming back," Quentin promises. "Have you guys told anyone else?"

"Yeah, we've told a few people," Julia says, smiling softly. "Everyone's been really great about it."

Quentin grins, taking Julia's hand in his. "That's great. I'm so happy for you, Jules."

Julia beams, and squeezes Quentin's hand. "But enough about me," she says. "I could have put all of that in a letter. I'm here to find out what's really going on with you."

Quentin blows out a breath. "How long have you got?" he jokes. "It's been... one hell of a ride."

Julia's expression softens. "I knew you'd been holding back in your letters," she says. "Tell me."

So, Quentin does. He tells her everything about that disastrous first meeting, the dinner that night, every encounter since and even the one where Quentin threw his wine on Eliot and Eliot's apology later that night. "And now, I - I don't know what to do. He's been nice enough - better than before, anyway. But I don't know where to go from here."

Julia's been listening to all of this with a frown that's only deepened as Quentin's story goes on, so Quentin half expects her to insist that he reject the bond and move home straight away. Instead, she surprises him. "Where do you want to go?" she asks. "In an ideal world, where Eliot isn't being an asshole, what would you want the outcome to be?"

Quentin doesn't have to think about it. "I'd want to date him. I think - Even now, I could see myself falling in love with him. I think it could work, the two of us, but I don't have any way of convincing _him_ of that because he's only just started to accept that I'm really not gonna just fucking leave."

"You need to show him, then," Julia says. There's an unexpected sparkle to her eyes. "You need to _woo_ him."

Quentin blinks. "Woo him?"

"You heard me," Julia says. "You need to charm the goddamn pants off of him."

Quentin considers that for a moment. "You think that would work?" he asks, hesitant. 

"Why not?" Julia asks. "The bond definitely isn't platonic, right? So he has the capacity to fall for you, too. It's worth a shot."

Quentin bites his lip, but it can't stop the small, hopeful smile. "Okay, yeah. But. He's the _king,_ " he reminds Julia, careful of his tone, mindful of their surroundings. "What the hell can I do to woo him?"

"He's your _soulmate_ , Q," Julia laughs. "Just be you. You'll work it out."

Quentin makes a face at that. "Being _me_ got me ignored for most of a week," he complains. 

"It also got him to start treating you like an actual person," Julia points out.

Quentin tilts his head, conceding the point. "Okay, but I still have... _no_ idea what to do."

"All right," Julia says. "What do you know about him?"

"He's caring," Quentin says immediately. "You should see him with Margo and Fen. Bit of a... hedonistic streak, but I can't blame him for that. He drinks a little too much, and - " Quentin's eyes light up. "Do you think you could convince Penny to go back to Earth to pick something up for me?"

"Probably," Julia says. "Why?"

Quentin, smiling brightly enough to light up the room, explains. 

* * *

It takes Penny moments to get what Quentin asks for - and he grumbles that he's _only_ doing this because of Julia - but soon enough, Quentin has a small package that he brings with him back to the castle. He waits until after dinner, when he knows that Eliot is most likely free, and starts looking. He finds Eliot in the gardens this time, tucked away out of sight of the main paths. "Hey," Quentin says, nerves starting to catch up with him. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Eliot says, shifting over to make room in the alcove he's sitting in. "What's up?"

"I went into town to meet Julia - she and Penny were in Whitespire to consult with a healer and for Penny to take care of some business - and while we were talking, I had this idea," Quentin rambles, sitting next to Eliot. "You remember Julia and Penny, right? I know I talk about Julia a lot."

"Of course," Eliot says, waving a hand. "Julia's the best friend, Penny's the best friend's soulmate."

"Yeah, exactly," Quentin agrees, grinning. "And a Traveler. So, I had this idea, and he said he only helped me because Julia asked him to, but he still did it." Quentin pulls the small package from his pocket, holding it out to Eliot. "I had no idea what brand you preferred, but I figured it was probably one of the more expensive ones."

Eliot just stares at him. "You got me cigarettes?" he asks, his voice hushed with disbelief.

Quentin nods. "Well, yeah. I wanted to do something for you. And you said you missed them, so."

Eliot laughs, and takes the pack, ripping the cellophane off and cracking the top in one smooth motion. The look on his face as he slips a cigarette free is almost reverent, and he glances up at Quentin with wide eyes. "Thank you," he says. "Do you want one?"

"Sure," Quentin says, still smiling. 

Eliot hands Quentin the cigarette and pulls out another one for himself. He lights it with a snap of his fingers, raises it to his lips, inhales - and lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "Oh my god," he breathes. " _Nicotine._ "

Quentin lights his own cigarette, hiding his pleased smile behind his own first drag. “It’s pretty good,” he hums. “Bet it’s even better when you haven’t had it for years.”

"Man, it's better than sex," Eliot sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. "God."

Quentin laughs at that, unthinkingly reaching out to nudge Eliot’s knee with the side of his foot. “That’s pretty high praise for something the size of a pencil.”

"Well," Eliot says, "it might just be that it's been so long that I've forgotten what sex is like."

Quentin snorts. "Join the club. I think the last time I got laid was... Maybe sophomore year of undergrad? It wasn't very satisfying. We were both drunk and it was during seven minutes in heaven."

Eliot laughs. "You were playing seven minutes in heaven in college?"

"Kady dragged me and Jules to a frat party because she didn't want to deal with the annoying dudebros all by herself," Quentin says, shrugging, his cheeks hot. "We got roped into playing with a bunch of the frat brothers and some of the girls they were trying to hook up with, and I ended up in the closet with Evan. He was... Actually, probably more drunk than I was, come to think of it."

Eliot almost drops his cigarette. "You fucked a guy?"

"I mean, we sucked each other's dicks and then he never looked at or spoke to me again," Quentin says, glancing at Eliot from the corner of his eye. "Pretty sure it was straight dude panic. But yeah, I'm bi."

"Wow," Eliot says, his eyes wide. He flicks his ash onto the ground, takes a long drag. "Shit. And no one since then?"

"Nope," Quentin says on a long exhale. "Made out with a couple of people, but never took anyone home or went home with any of them."

"That's... a long time," Eliot says. "I thought for sure you and... Arielle?"

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment, clearly contemplating how to do so. "Almost," he settles on. "We kissed once, but... It was nice, nothing more."

"Huh," Eliot says, and takes another drag, exhaling the smoke in a long, slow plume. "Interesting."

Quentin glances at Eliot from the corner of his eye. "She's a good friend, and I love her like one," he says, busying himself with his own cigarette. "But we're not... I don't know, maybe in another life. But not this one."

Eliot raises an eyebrow. "Evidently," he says.

"Evidently," Quentin echoes, smiling and leaning back against one hand. They drift into silence, watching the smoke from their cigarettes curl into the darkening night.

* * *

"Margo, I'm going to commit treason if you make me climb up that ladder one more time."

"No, you won't, sweetie," Margo says. "That string of lights is about to fall down."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but obligingly goes back up the ladder. "Is that better?"

"Much," Fen says, with an indulgent smile for Margo. "Thank you, Quentin."

"You're welcome, Fen," Quentin says, giving Margo a pointed look. "At least _someone_ appreciates my effort."

"I appreciate the view, does that count?" Margo asks, cheeky. 

"What view?" Eliot asks, as he walks into the room. He looks up, following Fen's and Margo's gaze, and is treated to a lovely view of the decorations - and Quentin's ass. His eyes widen. "Oh, my."

"It is a good view," Fen smirks as Quentin flips them off over his shoulder before climbing down. 

"Hi, Eliot," he says, flushing lightly. "I thought you guys had servants to do this stuff."

"Oh, we do," Fen assures him. "But you're just so good at it."

"I'm glad to be of service," Quentin says dryly. 

"You're certainly that," Eliot mutters, and clears his throat. "All right, ladies, you've had your fun. I was actually coming to steal Quentin for some very important business."

Quentin's eyes go wide as Margo rolls hers. "Alright, spoilsport."

Eliot gestures for Quentin to join him. "Come on," he says, "let’s go. Time is of the essence."

"Uh, okay," Quentin says, stepping over to follow Eliot from the room. 

Eliot sends the doors closed behind them with a wave of his hand, and wraps an arm around Quentin's shoulders. "You looked like you needed rescuing," he says.

"Thank you," Quentin sighs. "I love them, but honestly. I'm not a servant or a king, how the fuck am I supposed to know what color of ice decorations looks better?"

Eliot laughs. "In that case I guess you don't want to a sneak preview of my outfit for the ball?"

"I didn't say that," Quentin says hastily. "I'd love to see that."

"It's pretty fucking spectacular," Eliot assures him, steering Quentin gently in the direction of his own rooms.

Quentin goes easily. "It's your outfit, of course it will be."

"I also have a bottle of wine or two stashed away in there," Eliot goes on. "As long as you promise not to throw it in my face this time."

"Depends on how you behave," Quentin teases. 

"Fucking rude," Eliot sighs. "I'm the High King, you know."

"That doesn't excuse you from being an ass," Quentin laughs. "Lead the way, _your majesty._ "

* * *

Eliot’s outfit looks amazing in his room, but under the softly-glowing enchanted ice in the main ballroom? It looks downright _spectacular,_ just as he’d promised. The majority of the suit is an icy shade of blue, cut to fit Eliot’s figure exactly, with darker blue accents around his neck, chest, waist, and wrists. His crown, normally a dark red and black, has been glamored to match the color scheme of the ballroom and of his suit for the night. 

Quentin is, admittedly, having a hard time taking his eyes off of Eliot, a fact that Fen and Margo are teasing him _mercilessly_ for. “You know, we ordered that suit for you so that you’d fit in here, tonight,” Margo points out, a gleam in her eyes that has nothing to do with the enchanted ice. “That includes asking your soulmate for a dance.”

”He’s busy right now,” Quentin points out, the same as he has the past few times that Margo’s encouraged him to approach Eliot - and he’s not wrong. Eliot is making his way through the ballroom like a… Well, like a king. He stops to speak with some of the people who came to the ball, sharing his time equally with everyone he speaks to. He seems to be listening intently, paying everyone the same amount of respect and attention, and Quentin can’t help but smile as he watches Eliot. 

”He’d make time for you,” Margo insists. “Go on, ask him to dance, Quentin.”

Quentin, however, shakes his head. “No, I can’t,” he says, glancing from Eliot to Margo, the conflict clear in his eyes despite his protest. 

"He won't say no," Fen assures him. "Eliot loves to dance."

"Maybe, but _I don't know how,_ " Quentin hisses. 

Margo gives him an unimpressed look. "Do you need to me to ask him for you?"

"No, I mean I don't know how to _dance._ "

Margo rolls her eyes so hard she probably sees the back of her head. "Oh my _gods_ ," she complains. "You'll work it out. Just pussy up and get over there."

"Look," Fen says helpfully, "he's just left the Lorian ambassador, you could catch him while he's free."

Quentin bites his lip, but when he glances back at Margo - who makes an impatient shooting motion - he sets his jaw and marches over to Eliot. He probably looks ridiculous, even in the admittedly gorgeous suit that Margo and Fen had commissioned for him, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least ask Eliot for one dance. "Hey," he says as he approaches Eliot, waving slightly to catch his attention. "Are you free for a dance?"

"With you?" Eliot asks, because apparently he lives to make Quentin want to sink through the floor.

"Who else?" Quentin asks, maybe a little snappier than is strictly called for. 

Eliot blinks at him, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Yes," he says. "Why not? I'd love to dance."

Quentin's eyes widen briefly, but then he smiles, a small, shy thing. "Oh. Well, great. Um. You... will have to lead, I've never exactly done this before. Dancing, that is."

"You've never danced?" Eliot asks, but his laughter is warm as he takes Quentin's hand and leads him out onto the dancefloor.

"Not like this," Quentin says. "But Margo told me to 'pussy up' and that she and Fen got me this suit so I'd fit in while dancing with my soulmate. Didn't really have a choice to _not_ come ask you to dance after that."

"Meddling harpies," Eliot says. He sounds fond, though. "Here. Put your hand on my shoulder." Eliot's own hand is warm as it slides over Quentin's waist.

Quentin does as told, glancing down to make sure he's not in imminent danger of stepping on Eliot's foot. "Alright, now what?"

"Now," Eliot says, giving Quentin a gentle push, "step back with your right foot. Left foot to the side, together. Left foot forward, right to the side, together. And we're waltzing."

Quentin stumbles through the first few repeats of the pattern, but manages to narrowly avoid Eliot's toes. "What the _fuck,_ " he mutters, more than once, his brow furrowing in concentration. His movements get smoother as they continue, and eventually he feels confident enough to look back up at Eliot. "Nothing like a trial by fire, am I right?" he jokes. 

"You're doing beautifully," Eliot assures him. "Now get ready. We're going to turn."

"Oh, Christ," Quentin swears. "I regret everything that led to this moment." He doesn't sound like he means it, though, and when he glances back up at Eliot, he's smiling. 

Eliot smiles back, and turns them effortlessly. Quentin only stumbles a little. "See?" he murmurs. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Do that again when I'm _not_ paying attention and see how easy it is," Quentin mutters even as he relaxes further in Eliot's arms. 

They dance until the song ends, and then Eliot lets Quentin go. He has more people to greet, and he can tell that Quentin's had enough of people's gazes on him. Dancing with the High King isn't exactly the best way to fly under the radar.

Still, Eliot makes his way back to Margo and Fen eventually, and is surprised to find that Quentin isn't with them. It must show on his face, because Fen gives him a knowing smile. "He went to get us a drink," she tells him, and he nods.

"Having fun, ladies?" he asks, pressing a brief kiss to Margo's temple.

"Of course," Margo hums, leaning into Eliot briefly. "Watching Quentin learn to waltz in the middle of a ball was... something. He did admirably, though."

Eliot laughs. "I thought so," he says. "Tick didn't try to intervene when he stood on my foot for the fifth time, so I'm counting that as a win."

"I think it helps that he's so adorable when he apologizes," Margo teases. 

"Where have we seated him at the dinner?" Eliot asks, giving Quentin a little wave when he comes back into view, two drinks in hand.

Margo smiles when Quentin does, lifting one glass in acknowledgement as he carefully skirts the dance floor. "With us, of course," she says. "Fen and I weren't going to make him sit with strangers."

"That's very gracious of you, Bambi," Eliot says, without taking his eyes off Quentin. "That way we can do the talking for him. Oh no."

"What?" Fen turns to follow his gaze, just in time to see Quentin get accosted by one of the delegates from the Far Flung Isles. "Oh no."

" _Fuck,_ " Margo swears under her breath. "She's a gossip of the worst kind. El, go save him before he trips over his own tongue."

"Good gods," Eliot sighs, but he's already moving. He reaches Quentin as quickly as he can without drawing attention to himself, and grasps his shoulder. "Quentin! I've been looking everywhere for you."

Quentin looks almost pathetically relieved to see Eliot, and the delegate looks delighted. "Your majesty! Quentin here was just telling me that he's wintering here from a nearby village, where he's helping out at a local orchard!"

Eliot's hand tightens on Quentin's arm. "Yes," he says, all smiles. "Quentin was consulting with our chefs on the dessert menu, and we took a liking to him."

The delegate's eyes sparkle in a worrying way as she winks at Eliot. "Of course, your majesty; I can see why."

Eliot gives her a tight smile in return. "I hope you don't mind, but the High Queen just asked me to come over and steal him."

The delegate is clearly disappointed, but all she does is nod, taking a polite step back. "And one can't disobey the High Queen, of course," she concedes. "Bring her my regards, would you? It was lovely speaking with you both."

"Of course," Eliot says, already steering Quentin away. "And you."

Quentin goes easily, waiting until the delegate is well out of earshot to finally speak. " _Gods,_ I thought I'd never get away from her."

"You did pick the most chatty delegate to get stuck with," Eliot chuckles.

"I wasn't _trying to_ \- " Quentin cuts himself off with a huff and a roll of his eyes. "Whatever, I was bringing some cider over for Margo and Fen before dinner. Is it almost time?"

"Yes," Eliot answers. "Margo tells me you're sitting with us, so we can fend off any unruly ambassadors."

"Thank the gods," Quentin sighs. "If they're even half as persistent as her... I'm pretty sure I've already shoved my foot in my mouth enough for one night."

Eliot's laugh sounds just a little strange. "Highly likely," he agrees.

* * *

Dinner is far easier than the main ball had been; Quentin keeps food in his mouth and keeps his attention on his plate and his gawking to a minimum, and he manages to scrape by without having to talk to anyone except for Tick, Margo, Fen, and Eliot. Still, Eliot seems… off. Quentin doesn’t know him well enough to know _what_ exactly is bothering him, but he can tell that _something_ is.

When Eliot disappears back into the crowd once the meal is finished, Quentin begs off of the rest of the night; he’s overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people, and has hit the limit of his endurance for being social. Fen takes pity on him and distracts Margo so that he can escape unnoticed, and Quentin ducks out of the ballroom and hurries back to his room. He spends the rest of his night reading once he’s undressed, eventually crawling into bed and passing out.

He doesn’t see Eliot the next day, but considering Quentin spends most of it in his room, he’s not concerned just yet. When he doesn’t see Eliot at all the day after, however - not even at the _three_ meals that Quentin eats with Margo and Fen - he starts to worry. After dinner, he catches Margo’s attention. “Have you seen Eliot today?”

"Plenty," Margo says, searching his face with an unreadable expression. "Why?"

He feels incredibly awkward admitting it, but... "I haven't seen him since the ball," Quentin admits.

"Oh," Margo says. "Well, he's been a little busy lately."

"Yeah, I figured, I just..." Quentin blows out a breath. "Even when he's been 'a little busy,' he hasn't missed three meals in a row."

"He's taking his meals," Margo assures him, "just not with us."

Quentin worries his lip. "So he's avoiding one of us, then."

Margo winces. "Look," she says, "you'll need to talk to him about this."

"So he's avoiding _me,_ " Quentin surmises, hurt. "I thought we were past this, I - " He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks at Margo pleadingly. "Where is he?"

Margo holds her hands up. "I'm not getting involved," she says. "Maybe neither of us felt the pull, but El's my soulmate just as much as Fen is. But if you happen to be wandering past the Armoury and you happen to stumble against the third sconce down from the door and you happen to find the hidden door leading to the king's private wine cellar, well. That's not my fault.”

"No, of course not," Quentin says, relieved. "I mean, we all know how clumsy I can be." He gives Margo a grateful look, even goes so far as to take one of her hands in his for a brief squeeze, before he takes off. 

* * *

It doesn’t take long to find the sconce that Margo is talking about, and Quentin makes sure that no one else is in the hallway before he pulls on it. He ducks into the passage beyond quickly, letting the door fall back into place and conjuring a small orb to light his path down the stairs. 

He finds Eliot on a rather lavish armchair, which Quentin is sure isn't a good sign, that furniture of that quality is down here. "Eliot?" he calls, edging into view. "How long have you been down here?"

Eliot doesn't answer. "Remind me to kill Margo," he says instead, his tone mild. "I came down here because I didn't want to be disturbed."

"So you've been down here for a long time," Quentin guesses, ignoring Eliot's idle threat against Margo - he'd never go through with it, and Fen would kill him before he could.

Eliot sighs. "Why does it matter, Quentin?"

"Because we're worried about you?" Quentin suggests, stepping closer. "Seriously, Eliot, why are you hiding down here?"

Eliot sniffs and turns away. "I don't want to talk about it."

Quentin just moves closer, shifting until he can duck his head, meet Eliot's gaze. "Eliot, _I'm_ worried about you. Margo wouldn't have told me about this place if _she_ wasn't seriously worried. Please talk to me?"

Eliot cringes away from him. "No," he says, "you're the last person I want to talk to right now."

Quentin blinks, straightening. "Well, I kind of figured you were avoiding me specifically, so thanks for that confirmation, I guess? What the hell happened, El?" The nickname slips out without him realizing. 

Just like that, Eliot snaps. "What happened," he says, "is that the whole court is buzzing because the High King's soulmate is a _peasant._ "

Quentin rocks back on his heels. "What - I - How?"

Eliot gives him an icy look. "Because of you."

" _What?_ "

"You told me you wanted to dance with your soulmate," Eliot hisses. "And you told the nosiest delegate at the party that you were a peach farmer."

"Okay, well, excuse me for not knowing how to deflect when someone ambushes me during a ball and asks how I know the High King!" Quentin retorts. "For fuck's sake, Eliot, I thought we were past this. Just because we're soulmates doesn't mean anything we don't want it to!"

"Please," Eliot huffs. "I know exactly what you want it to mean."

"Well why don't you enlighten me then, since you're so all-knowing?" Quentin snaps. 

"What do you think this is, Quentin?" Eliot demands, exasperated, in lieu of a direct answer. "Do you think we're going to fall in love?"

Quentin clenches his jaw. "Maybe I hoped it was a possibility," he retorts. "But so fucking what? A lot of people do. But it's been less and less of a possibility since the first goddamned day I got here, and I am _sick_ of this fucking back-and-forth! What the _fuck_ is your problem with me? Why the hell is it such a big deal that I'm a 'peasant'?" Quentin spits the last word with such venom that he's surprised it doesn't burn his lips on the way past. 

Even so, Eliot doesn't even flinch. "You're a _farmer_ ," he spits right back. His voice is shaking. "Believe me, that's all that matters here."

" _Why?_ " Quentin demands, relentless; he's not giving up now. "You've been picking at me and - and _insulting_ what I did before I came to Whitespire ever since we met. I've had enough of it, Eliot. Why in the name of every single god that exists does it _matter_ so goddamned much to you?"

"Because I can't go back to that life!" Eliot shouts. "I came here to _escape_ all of that! I'm the fucking High King!"

Quentin stares at Eliot for a long moment, the pieces of the puzzle that he has slotting into place, but - There's still something missing. "Well, yeah," he says slowly, "you're the fucking High King. By blood. No one can take that from you. But Margo was a noble before you made her High Queen, and... And you came from Earth. Your - Your birth family. They... were farmers, weren't they?" Quentin glances around, takes in the empty bottles, the old, rumpled clothes that Eliot's wearing, his mussed hair and the dark circles around his eyes. "But that doesn't explain all of this."

Eliot snorts. "Of course it does," he says. "Yes, my parents were farmers. From Indiana. And they _hated_ me."

Quentin sucks in a sharp breath. "That - _El._ But they aren't... Just because they were assholes about - _whatever_ doesn't mean that all farmers are."

"I know that," Eliot snaps. "This has nothing to do with farmers, and everything to do with me. I ran away from my family, and I found Fillory, and I _reinvented_ myself, all to escape the hellscape that was my home. And look at me now. I'm High King by blood. I'm never going back to that life. I'm never going to be what they wanted me to be, what they _made me._ If Fate thinks it can fuck with that, it can suck my cock. I'd rather die, Quentin."

"And when the _hell_ did it try to fuck with that?" Quentin demands. "I have _never_ tried to take you away from Whitespire, Eliot. Or even fucking asked you to consider anything more than giving us a _chance_ to figure out what this bond is." He takes a step back, shakes his head. "You need to sort your shit out, Eliot. I am _not_ your parents, and honestly? I'd really fucking hate myself if I was. I've done _everything_ I can think of to try to convince you I just wanted to get to know you, and you keep coming back to _this_ like you think I'll turn around say I was just kidding." 

Eliot sighs and looks away. "Just go, Quentin," he says. "I don't want you here."

Quentin waits for a moment, but when Eliot doesn’t say anything else - when he refuses to so much as _look_ at Quentin - Quentin finally gives in. He turns on his heel, and leaves.

* * *

" _You_ are a gods-damned _fucking_ moron, Eliot Waugh!" Margo shouts, her voice echoing down the stairwell to where Eliot is still sitting in the wine cellar. "Do you know what Quentin is doing right now?"

Eliot waves a hand. "I don't care, Bambi. Leave me alone."

"He's packing his shit to _leave,_ " Margo snarls, ignoring Eliot and stalking closer. "He told me he'd tried everything he could think of, but he was done, and he was going back to his family. He even went so far as to promise me he'd make weekly trips back to the city just so you could continue to be High King!"

"What?" Eliot asks, screwing his face up. "Why not just reject the bond and end all of this?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask him that," Margo snaps. "Because I was too busy trying to decide if I should do it for him and eviscerate you! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he tried to fucking _court_ you?"

Eliot barks a harsh laugh. "He did nothing of the sort."

"He asked a guy he doesn't even like to go to Earth and bring you cigarettes," Margo says flatly. "He insisted on getting to know _you_ and not the High King. He threw wine on you when you _insulted_ him by propositioning him and trying to reduce the soul bond to nothing more than sex. He fucking _danced_ with you at one of the biggest balls of the year when he had no idea _how to dance!_ "

"And so what?" Eliot demands, a desperate edge to his voice. "You know what he is, Margo. You know how hard I've fought to get away from that life, how much it'll fuck with me to even step foot on his land. And you want me to what, _marry him?_ "

"Have you been listening to a single damn thing he's said since he arrived?" Margo retorts. "It's not _his_ land, it belongs to the family of a friend, because he had _nothing else to do_ when he got here! And why do you assume that marrying him - or even showing some _genuine_ interest in him - means that you have to leave Whitespire? We have an empty throne, you dumbass."

Eliot _gapes_ at her. "He wouldn't want that," he says.

"Have you asked him?" Margo asks bluntly. "Have you actually sat down and had a conversation with him about what you both want from this? Or have you just been assuming that once he's gotten you to like him - which, even I fucking know that Quentin doesn't have a scheming bone in his body - he'll demand you give up the throne and move to the country with him?"

Eliot just stares at her for the longest moments, his mouth working soundlessly. "Where is he?" he asks at last.

”In his room, packing his shit and probably moping,” Margo says. “Are you going to finally talk to your soulmate?”

Eliot gets to his feet, and grimaces. "Ideally I'd prefer to do this sober," he says, "but I don't have that luxury, do I?"

"No, you don't," Margo says without mercy. "If you don't go now, you _will_ have to chase him back to his friend's farm."

"Not an option," Eliot says. He's already halfway to the stairs, and he pauses long enough to look back at her. "Thank you, Bambi."

Margo makes a shooing motion. "Thank me if you manage to convince Quentin to give you another chance."

Eliot doesn't stop to respond. He races through the castle, clumsily dodging servants and advisors as he goes, and when he finally reaches Quentin's room he's more than a little out of breath. He really needs to stop smoking, and probably drinking, too, but that's a problem for another day. One thing at a time - and his current one thing is on the other side of that door. Right.

He takes a deep breath, and knocks.

"Benedict, I told you I don't - " Quentin stops, blinking, when he registers who exactly is standing on the other side of the door. "Um."

"Hey," Eliot says. He has no idea what he looks like, still wheezing faintly, his eyes wild and his hair fucking everywhere, but for the first time in a long time he doesn't care. "Can we talk?"

"Um," Quentin says again before stepping to the side. "Sure?"

"Margo came and got me," Eliot says, as he walks into the room. "She told me you're leaving."

"Yeah, I - I've been gone for a while. And obviously we weren't making any progress, so." Quentin watches Eliot carefully, so obviously unsure as to what Eliot is doing here. "I told Margo I'd come back, though. In the off season. So we could keep functioning like relatively normal people."

"And, what?" Eliot asks. "Force the bond platonic? I might not be a native Fillorian, but I'm not sure that's how these things work."

"Well you didn't have any interest in trying anything else," Quentin snaps, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Reject the bond," Eliot says. "You'd never have to see me again."

Quentin snorts. "I don't think that's an option. Besides, I don't feel like literally breaking my soul."

Eliot blows out a breath. "Right," he says. "Okay. Great. Look, this isn't easy for me."

Quentin frowns. "And what is 'this'?"

"Being honest," Eliot says. "I don't want you to go."

Quentin blinks, visibly thrown. "What?"

"I don't want you to go," Eliot admits. "I--" He closes his eyes briefly. "I'm really drunk, still. Can I sit?"

"Oh!" The request spurs Quentin into action, and he moves towards the bed, clearing a space. "Uh, yeah, sure. I don't - I don't understand, though. You've been telling me to leave since I got here."

"I know," Eliot says. "I told you, being honest is hard for me. But I'm trying it now, okay? So buckle up."

Quentin hesitates and then clears some more space for him to sit next to Eliot. "Okay."

Eliot curls his legs up beneath him on the bed, and takes a breath. "You terrify me," he says. "I know the orchard isn't yours, I know you weren't raised a farmer. But I was. And I have... a metric fuck-ton of trauma left over from that. Not just about farms, although I probably won't be visiting yours for some time. But my parents were. Not great. My father in particular, he spent my formative years driving it home that anything except his particular masculine ideal was unacceptable, and that my _choices_ rendered me categorically unloveable. Ridiculous, of course. I have Margo, and Fen, and the adoration of most of my subjects. But when I found out I had a soulmate? It felt like some kind of cosmic joke."

Quentin nods. "I felt the same," he confesses. "I didn't... I don't have your history - which, your father sounds like a bastard, by the way - but I still couldn't believe I had a soulmate. I thought it was just my anxiety, that feeling of needing to run, the ringing in my ears."

"I didn't know what to think," Eliot says, "but I knew I didn't want to meet you. I thought, whoever you were, you would take me away from all of this, everything I've worked so hard to build over the last few years. I thought you'd somehow turn me back into the person I was before, or else that when you finally saw those parts of myself that you wouldn't want me anymore. So I didn't want to meet you. And when I couldn't ignore the pull anymore, and I saw you for the first time... I can't describe how it felt. But it scared the shit out of me." He looks away as he admits, "When you stopped coming to Whitespire for the market, before you started travelling to find me, I think I would have let the pull drive me insane rather than follow it."

" _Eliot,_ " Quentin breathes, pained. 

"And then you showed up," Eliot goes on, like he hasn't heard Quentin at all. "And meeting you was worse than I could have imagined, because I _liked_ you. You were awkward and passionate and funny and brave. You're so brave, Quentin. You stood up to me and you pushed me and you made me want to be your friend. You made me--" He cuts himself off. "After the ball, when I heard that people were talking, it freaked me out. I know it doesn't really matter what line of work my soulmate is in, I'm not actually a class snob, and I can deal with some gossiping, judgemental nobles. But it brought back everything I'd been scared of before I met you. I overreacted."

Quentin hesitates, worrying his lip. "I can see why," he says after a moment, like he's not sure whether Eliot will listen. "But... I told you from the very beginning that I didn't want to try to make you leave Whitespire."

Eliot shakes his head. "I know," he says. "I don't think I really thought that."

"Then... why?" Quentin asks. "Why push me away so hard?"

"Because I'm falling in love with you," Eliot confesses.

Quentin blinks. "You - " He swallows, takes a deep breath. "I-I'm falling for you, too," he admits, glancing at Eliot from the corner of his eye, cheeks hot. 

Eliot lets out a shaky breath. "I wish I was as brave as you," he says. "I wish I was as good as you. You asked me for a chance today. You've been asking me for a chance this whole time. And I don't know how to reach out to you."

"You don't need to reach out, not right away," Quentin says quietly. "Just... let me reach you. Stop running, stop pushing."

It takes him a long moment, but at last Eliot nods. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."

Quentin reaches out, careful and slow, and rests his hand over Eliot's. "Okay," he echoes, a small smile on his face. "Just - for the record? I'm not expecting you to make a complete turnaround in one day. I just... I want you to give this - " He squeezes Eliot's hand briefly " - an honest try. Let's get to know each other without the drama of the past few weeks before we decide anything else, okay?"

Somehow, Eliot manages to smile back. "I think I can manage that."

* * *

Eliot and Quentin spend a lot of time together over the next couple of days, but it's quiet, just easing themselves back into being friends. Margo notices and has a lot to say about it - when Quentin isn't around, thankfully. Eliot ignores her for the most part, and leaves the room when he can't, which is sometimes a challenge given that she usually holds these conversations in Eliot's own bedroom. But they're going to be okay, Eliot thinks. All of them. He's trying.

He's taken to joining them for meals again, so it's no surprise at breakfast one morning when Margo gazes at them over the brim of her teacup and asks, "So what have you love birds got planned for today?"

Still, Eliot feels awkward. "I should probably get some work done," he admits. "There are a few treaties Tick wants me to look at. Boring stuff, but most of them date back to the last time Fillory had a High King." He cuts his gaze to Quentin. "You interested?"

It’s probably a little pathetic how quickly Quentin answers. “Yes!” He clears his throat, ignores the knowing smile that Margo gives him. “Yeah, that - that sounds like fun. I mean, I’d love to get a look at that history.”

Eliot smiles. "Great," he says. "I'll have Tick prepare the necessary documents, and we can get stuck in."

They finish their meal quickly, and Quentin follows Eliot through the halls to the royal study. There are several desks arranged about the room, shelves lining every wall filled with books and papers, and Quentin can easily tell which desk is Eliot's by the ridiculously comfortable-looking chair behind it. Tick brings them the treaties Eliot need to look over, and once Quentin has his own chair - which is far more comfortable than it looks - they do indeed get 'stuck in.' Quentin is having a wonderful time, even if Eliot isn't, though; he finds these treaties and the information they offer about far-off places absolutely _fascinating,_ and happily peruses the books and papers on the shelves for additional information whenever they need it, and takes notes for his own future research while Eliot makes notes for future treaties. 

They've been working for close to three hours before Quentin finally asks, "So, is this the sort of thing you do a lot? As High King?"

"Only when I can't avoid it," Eliot says darkly. "This is the boring part of the job."

" _Boring?_ " Quentin splutters. "Well, then what do you find exciting?"

"Sex," Eliot says, without hesitation.

"I meant about being High King," Quentin says, rolling his eyes and ignoring the heat in his cheeks. "There has to be _something_ about being High King that you like. And sex doesn't count."

"Well, I like the parties," Eliot says. "Which almost always end in sex, so I guess it doesn’t count." He sighs. "And I like helping people. I don't know if you've noticed, but the way things are done around here is very... old-fashioned. Everything is skewed in favour of the ruling classes. I'm trying to change that."

"Oh?" Quentin prompts, settling back into his chair and looking at Eliot expectantly. "You've been here longer than I have; how bad was it when you first got here?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Oh, it was practically medieval. Fen's a farmer's daughter. Her father was the guy who cut my hand with the blade that only draws the blood of the High King. He tried to sell me a magic dagger in exchange for me marrying her sister."

"Wow," Quentin says, eyes wide. "I'm guessing she didn't have much say in that?"

"Of course not," Eliot says. "But when he found out I was making Margo High Queen and Fen a queen too, he dropped it pretty quick."

"Well, at least there's that," Quentin says, shuffling the papers in his hands. "Has there been a lot of pushback?"

"About as much as you'd expect," Eliot says. "But the country is just crying out for change. It's going to be a long process, but it'll be better for it in the end. I hope."

"Hm." Quentin glances up, offers Eliot a smile. "For what it's worth, people in the market were all but singing your praises most days."

Eliot looks surprised, but he smiles. "Really?"

"Yeah. They liked that you were insisting the 'rich tits quit hoarding their gold like fucking dragons and put it to good use.'"

Eliot laughs. "That is almost a direct quote," he says. "I'm impressed."

His smile growing, Quentin ignores the flush on his cheeks in favor of asking Eliot about more of his changes in policy, the ones he’s made and the ones he wants to make - and Eliot answers readily, openly.

* * *

That day is the first of many that they spend tucked away in the royal study or in the library, and every day that they spend together brings them closer than before. Quentin revels in both the work and in Eliot’s company; he likes the nit-picky details that Eliot abhors, the stuff he calls boring. He also likes _Eliot,_ and seeing Eliot behind the mask of the High King feels like an honor and a gift, one that Quentin hoards jealously. He still has no idea what the future holds for the two of them, and with spring fast approaching, Quentin knows that he’ll have to make a choice soon - stay in Whitespire, or return to the village. He doesn’t know which he’ll pick, only which he’d _like_ to choose, but…

Well, it’s not just his decision.

Quentin’s drawn from his musing by a knock on the door, and when he opens it his hand flies up to cover his mouth, muffling a startled laugh. “What are you _wearing?_ ”

Eliot spreads his arms, looks down at himself like nothing is out of the ordinary. "What?"

"This is the most dressed-down I've ever seen you, El," Quentin snickers. "It's... kind of unnerving, actually. Why are you dressed like that?"

" _I wanna live like common people_ ," Eliot deadpans - and grins. "We're going out."

"Out?" Quentin echoes, eyes wide. "Us?"

"Yes, us," Eliot says. "We're going to the theatre. Incognito."

Quentin blinks. "Oh. Okay. Do I... need to change?"

Eliot gives him a thoughtful once-over. "No," he says, "you're perfect. Are you ready to go?"

"Um, sure," Quentin says, stepping into the hallway and closing his door behind him. "Lead the way."

Quentin follows Eliot through the castle and out onto the streets of Whitespire. As soon as they're past the gate, Quentin can't help but notice that it seems like a weight drops from Eliot's shoulders; he stands straighter, his gait turning looser, more relaxed. He even smiles and readily indulges Quentin when he asks about where they're going, and Quentin has to force himself to remember to watch where he's going instead of staring at Eliot like a lovesick fool. 

By the time they reach Whitespire Playhouse, Quentin is extremely excited to be out of the castle - and out of the castle _with Eliot._ "I only saw one Broadway play, but it was an amazing experience," he says as they duck into the line for the entrance. "I always wished I could go again."

Eliot chuckles, deep and fond. "I doubt this is going to be quite so amazing," he warns.

"It's still a theater," Quentin counters. "I was a stagehand for the drama department in high school and college, I loved watching the plays. Always wanted to go to the Globe, too - see a Shakespeare play performed where it started."

"Oh my god," Eliot chuckles. "You little nerd. My father would have kicked my ass if I'd so much as mentioned Shakespeare."

Quentin frowns the way he always does when Eliot's father is mentioned. "Well, all the more reason to enjoy plays now," he says. "I'm looking forward to seeing what Fillory thinks is play-worthy."

Eliot smiles and tucks Quentin closer against his side. "You're in for a treat," he promises.

”I can’t tell if that’s a promise or a threat,” Quentin laughs, but then they’re in the theater, and hurrying to their seats.

It ends up being a little bit of both; the acting is _astounding,_ especially with magic to add more punch to the special effects, but the plot is… unusual, to be kind. It’s not _incomprehensible,_ but Quentin has a feeling that he’ll need to live in Fillory for more than a year before he’ll get some of the humor and references. Still, he greatly enjoys the experience - and he enjoys _Eliot’s_ reactions to the play just as much, if not more. Eliot doesn’t turn them back towards Castle Whitespire once they leave the Whitespire Playhouse, instead leading them further into the city and to one of the nicer taverns as they continue to discuss the spectacle they’d just witnessed, barely pausing to give orders for something to snack on and drinks to the serving girl who approaches their table before continuing with their conversation.

”I still can’t believe they pulled that fire spell off without setting the whole fucking stage on fire,” Quentin marvels. “I mean, I get that it was such a huge, climactic moment of the play, but - Do Fillorians just not care about audience safety or is the danger supposed to be part of the thrill?”

Eliot laughs, leaning into Quentin's space a little. "Probably a bit of both," he says. His eyes flash. "It was pretty thrilling, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I'm not arguing that," Quentin laughs, letting Eliot into his space without moving away. "That was - Shit, it was honestly as good as Broadway."

The smile Eliot gives him then is surprisingly soft. "I'm really glad you enjoyed it, Q."

Quentin flushes, ducking his head with a shy smile. "That's, um. That's the first time you've called me Q," he mumbles. "But I'm also really glad I came with you tonight."

Eliot looks unbelievably pleased. "Well, the night's not over yet."

Quentin glances up at Eliot, expression curious. "You have more plans?"

"Nothing specific," Eliot says. "But I'm young, I have an incredibly attractive man on my arm, and for the first time in years I'm free. I'm sure we can find something to do."

The light from the nearby fireplace only highlights the flush that rises to Quentin's cheeks, but as their food and drinks are dropped off, he gives Eliot a soft smile. "Not like I'm in any hurry to get back."

* * *

Arielle sends word a few weeks later that she's coming to visit. Quentin is excited to show her the city as well as the castle, so he arranges to meet her in the tavern he and Julia met up in for something to eat before he introduces her to Eliot and everyone else. She's already at a table when he gets there, and he rushes over to give her a big hug.

"Oh, I've missed you," she says, laughing, squeezing him tight. "How are you? You look amazing!"

"I am - _really_ good," Quentin says with his own laugh, hugging Arielle again. "The past few months have been a whirlwind, but... You look good, too!"

"Thank you!" Arielle is grinning when Quentin finally lets her go, and they take their seats at the table. "It's all the extra time I'm spending outdoors now that you're not there to help me!"

Quentin laughs sheepishly. "Well, this was kind of a visit I couldn't put off any longer." He takes a deep breath then, and asks, "Did Julia tell you who I found?"

"Yes!" Arielle gushes. "I knew you'd find them! Julia told me they spend a lot of time in the castle, but she wouldn't say anything else. Who is it?"

Quentin glances around before pitching his voice just low enough that only he and Arielle can hear it. "I found out why High Queen Margo invited me to the castle - because she knew that High King Eliot and I are soulmates."

Arielle actually gasps. "Oh gods," she breathes. "We've heard rumours, that the High King found his soulmate, but I didn’t want to think it was you. We heard he _rejected_ the bond."

Quentin shrugs. "He tried. And we... came really close to giving up. I actually was going to leave at one point, come back once or twice a month so we could be semi-normal human beings."

"So what changed?" Arielle asks.

"I was going to leave," Quentin answers. "I kept telling him I just wanted to get to know him, but he... He didn't believe me, for reasons that aren't mine to say. But when I was finally going to leave, I think that made him realize I was truly serious. We've spent the past several weeks spending time together whenever we can and actually learning about each other."

Arielle's eyes go all gooey and soft. "Do you love him?" she asks.

Quentin bites his lip, but when he answers, his own smile is soft. "Yeah. I-I do." He takes a deep breath and admits, "I think I'm going to stay here. In Whitespire."

"Forever?" Arielle asks dreamily. "Is he going to make you a king?"

Quentin laughs. "I don't know about that," he says. "I still need to talk to him about me staying, much less becoming a king or consort or... whatever it's called."

"And are you going to do that?" Arielle presses.

"Yeah, I am," Quentin assures her. "Sometime soon. But seriously, how is everyone back at the village?"

"Oh, you would not _believe_ the trouble that Jeremy got into at Yule," Arielle complains, launching into an animated tale of her youngest brother's antics that have the both of them in stitches through their small meal. She catches Quentin up on all of the village news, easy conversation carrying them out of the tavern and to the road leading to the castle. 

They keep talking and laughing as they walk, enjoying the brisk winter's air until someone ducks out of an alley and runs straight into Quentin. " _Oh!_ " Quentin exclains, automatically catching the person, steadying them with his hands on their arms. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," the woman says. She grasps Quentin by the arms, and when she looks up into his face he realises with a jolt that he knows her. It's Madame Comtois, the fortune teller from the market. "But you are not, Quentin Coldwater."

Quentin blinks, unable to look away from the intensity of her gaze. "What do you mean?"

"You're in danger," she tells him. She reaches out to grasp Arielle's hand and forces it into Quentin's. "You both need to run, now, if you want to live."

Quentin glances at Arielle, takes in her wide eyes, and tightens his grip. "Okay," he says, grim; Madame Comtois has a reputation, as all fortune tellers do - but hers includes the fact that she is never wrong. "Where?"

"Away from the castle," is the answer. "That way. Go now."

With a nod of thanks, Quentin pulls on Arielle's hand, stirring her to action, and they run. 

They aren't quite fast enough. 

* * *

"You're not seriously considering this, Eliot," Margo says flatly, glaring at the guard - he looks familiar, and his name starts with a T, she thinks briefly before dismissing that problem in favor of the larger one. "This is a message from a _fortune teller._ They're always predicting doom and misfortune, and this isn't even the first message from one we've gotten! You _know_ they never pan out."

"This fortune teller is legit," Eliot insists, tugging at his hair. "Something's wrong, I can feel it. Wasn't Quentin supposed to be back by now?"

Margo frowns. "Almost," she concedes. "But you know he was gone all day with Julia, and he's been excited to meet with Arielle since she sent that letter. They probably just got caught up talking."

Eliot stares at her for a long moment, and then he nods. "You're right," he says. "You're right, they're probably just--"

He's interrupted by the door to the throne room being thrown open, another guard - this one in Captain's armor - striding through with hasty steps. "Your majesties! There's been an attack in the city," he announces. "One building was lost, two others are on fire, and there were eleven civilian casualties."

"Fuck!" Eliot hisses. "Who was hurt? Is anyone dead? Do we know who was responsible?"

"One of the civilians in the attack managed to capture one of the attackers. There were no deaths, though three of the wounded are in critical condition." The guard hesitates for only a moment before straightening his shoulders and continuing, "Including your soulmate. According to the captured attacker, he was the target."

"What?" Eliot feels the floor tilt sideways beneath his feet and barely stays standing. He reaches blindly for Margo. "Where is he?"

Margo's already reaching for Eliot, taking his hand in hers as the guard speaks. "He's in the city, being tended to by a trusted healer," the guard reports. "He's unconscious, but his companion was the one who captured his attacker - she knocked him out with a board. The healer is optimistic, but... He was gravely wounded."

"I need to get there," Eliot says. "He-- _Why_ was he the target?"

"From what we've gathered, this attack was orchestrated by a group who learned that your soulmate was not noble - and not a native to Fillory. They were already displeased with a human being High King, and rather than attack you directly, they took the opportunity to attack him." The guard's expression is stony. "I can take you to him, your majesty."

"Yes," Eliot says. He's shaking. "Do that. Right away. Bambi?"

Margo's answer is immediate. "Yes?" 

Eliot turns to her abruptly and grips both of her hands as hard as he dares. "I don't know how to do this," he says, low enough that the words are just for her. "My capital city is on fire and my people are hurt, but I can't-- It's _Q_."

"I know," Margo murmurs. "I'll send Fen with you, and I'll stay here, start rounding up healers and medical supplies. She can help get things under control in the city while you look after Quentin."

Eliot kisses her. "Thank you."

Margo gives him a smile and squeezes his hand before turning back to the guard. "Captain, High King Eliot and Queen Fen will go into the city with you. I am going to organize relief efforts, including healers - get a detachment of guards to bring those wounded directly here, understood?"

The guard's expression belies his relief, and he snaps off a sharp salute. "Understood, your majesty."

* * *

"Yes," Eliot says, for the thousandth time since they reached the city. "It's awful. We're doing everything we can. The wounded are being brought directly to the castle so that they can be treated by the best healers. Those responsible will be punished. If you'll excuse me."

He pats the woman - did she say she was a seamstress? - on the arm and moves past her, past the last obstacle between him and the cordoned-off area at the end of the street. He doesn't run, because there are people watching, but he feels every second it takes him to reach the guard, who seems to be talking to a young woman. He doesn't even give the woman a chance to finish whatever she's saying.

"Quentin Coldwater. I demand to see him immediately."

The guard opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything, the woman does. "High King Eliot? I'm Arielle - I was meeting Quentin today," she says, giving a small curtsey. "I can take you to him; he was brought into one of these shops, to get off of the street and give the healers more room to work."

"Excellent," Eliot says, gesturing for Arielle to lead the way. "Let's do that right now."

Arielle offers him a reassuring smile before turning and leading the way to a nearby shop. "The tavern we were in was attacked first, and then two nearby," she explains. "We were leaving when Madame Comtois ran into Quentin - literally - and told us to run. The commotion made us hesitate, and Quentin was grabbed, dragged into an alley. I followed, grabbed a board, and knocked one of his attackers unconscious. The others fled, leaving Quentin..." She hesitates, then pushes open the door to the side room that they'd stopped in front of. "He was in much worse condition thirty minutes ago."

"Fuck," Eliot breathes. The floor is moving beneath his feet again. "Q."

There's a healer sitting next to Quentin, but Eliot doesn't notice him; all he sees is Quentin laid out on a cot, covered in cuts and bruises and with his head wrapped in bandages. "He's stable now," the healer reports. "And he was the worst injured. Everyone else has bruises, minor cuts and burns if they were struck by debris as they escaped the buildings. He should wake by tonight."

"Can he be moved?" Eliot asks, still rooted to the spot in the doorway. "We're having everyone who was injured brought back to the castle."

"Carefully, but yes," the healer assures him. 

"Then let's do that," Eliot says. "The sooner we get him home, the better."

Arielle's expression softens as the healer's turns understanding. "Of course, your majesty," he says. "I'll see to it personally."

Eliot gives him a tight smile. "Keep him alive and you'll have a position with the royal healers."

* * *

Arielle stays with Quentin and Eliot the whole way up to the castle, Fen continuing to direct relief efforts in the city. They make it back to the castle without incident, and get Quentin settled in his own room. He's still asleep - has shown no signs yet of waking - and Arielle waits until the healer has left before she addresses Eliot once again. "It’s good to see that Quentin's soulmate cares so much for him," she says quietly. 

Eliot pulls a face. "Apparently his attackers thought so, too. He's in this state because of me."

"You can't help that you're human," Arielle points out. "And those morons are by far the minority. Most of us like you just fine."

"But some of them hate that a _Child of Earth_ is on the throne," Eliot sneers. "I've made two Fillorians monarchs, both because they're the right women for the job and because I want Fillory to have rulers the people can trust, but now another outsider appears and everything I've done for this place means nothing. People were hurt today, buildings were damaged, all because someone wanted to get to me through Quentin."

"People have tried to get to royalty and nobility through their soulmates for eons," Arielle says bluntly. "That you're a Child of Earth and High King is just the excuse this time."

Eliot shakes his head, a bitter twist to his mouth. "It doesn't matter," he says. "Whatever their reasons, I almost lost him today. Even with half my capital city on fire, that's all I care about."

"It's three buildings in the upper part of the city, that's hardly _half_ of Whitespire," Arielle says with a roll of her eyes. She hesitates, studying Eliot for a moment. "He told me some of what happened, the first few weeks he was here. And out in the village, we heard rumors that the High King had found his soulmate and rejected the bond. I didn't want to think that was Quentin - he deserved better. He told me that you two talked, fixed things. He truly cares for you, and a little head wound isn't going to keep him from you."

Eliot gives her a smile. "I hope so," he says. "I guess we'll find out when he wakes up."

"It should be soon," Arielle says. "Also, your majesty? If you ever hurt Quentin, not even High Queen Margo will be able to keep you safe from his family."

The smile Eliot gives her then is more genuine. "Did you just threaten your High King?"

"I threatened one of my best friend's soulmate," Arielle corrects, grinning. "He just happens to be the High King."

"Well," Eliot says, smirking now. "I guess I can respect that."

* * *

Eliot refuses to leave Quentin's side, even when Margo comes to him with the news that they've apprehended two more people involved in the attack. He'll care about that and everything involved later, once he knows for certain that Quentin is okay. Arielle stays with him, and he at least has the wherewithal to ask someone to bring her something to eat. He also has the healer give her a once-over when he comes back in to check on Quentin, because even though she wasn't hurt she's still had a shock. She's fine. Eliot is beyond relieved that at least one of them escaped disaster today.

The healer also says that Quentin could wake up any time in the next few hours, which is fine, because Eliot has nowhere to be anyway. He's perfectly content to just sit at the side of Quentin's bed, Arielle on the other side, and wait. After Arielle looks down pointedly at where his hand is resting innocently on the bedspread, Eliot pussies up and slips it into Quentin's. He doesn't let go for the next hour and a half.

Quentin first stirs without waking, but after another five minutes, he blinks, clearly struggling to open his eyes and focus. It takes him a moment, but then he looks to Arielle and then Eliot. "El?" he asks, voice raspy. "Ari?"

"Q," Eliot sighs. He squeezes Quentin's hand. "Take it easy, okay? How do you feel?"

"Still sleepy," Quentin mumbles. "Kinda fuzzy. What happened?"

"You were put in a medical sleep," Arielle says, reaching to take Quentin's other hand. "You were hit in the head and beaten pretty badly."

Eliot winces. "You're back in your rooms now, in the castle," he adds. "I'll call for the healer."

"There were some buildings - "

"Three damaged, some people hurt - but nothing serious," Arielle assures him. 

"You got it worse than anyone, because of course you did," Eliot says. "So stop worrying about everyone but yourself." He brushes a soft kiss to the back of Quentin's hand and gets to his feet.

Quentin huffs a soft laugh, squeezing Eliot's hand as he gets up. He turns his attention to Arielle, expression questioning. "We weren't that close to the attack, were we?"

Arielle bites her lip. "Not the attack on the buildings. But... You were the target, Quentin."

Quentin blinks. "What?"

"Some idiots were upset with Eliot being human and High King," Arielle scoffs. "Like that's actually a problem, when we also have two Fillorian queens. Somehow, they found out you're his soulmate, and tried to take you out to get to him."

"They _what?_ " Quentin demands, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

Arielle pats his hand. "Yes," she says, "I'm fine. They weren't interested in me."

Quentin relaxes. "What happened? I remember we were running, then there was screaming, and we stopped..."

"The tavern we were in was hit first," Arielle says. "That's where the most people got hurt. Then two more buildings. When we stopped to look, they grabbed you, dragged you away. I followed, and I even knocked one of them out, but they'd already hurt you pretty badly."

Quentin grins despite himself. "Knocked one out, huh?"

Arielle blushes. "I hit him over the head."

Quentin laughs. "Of course you did. My heroine," he teases.

Arielle smiles. "I try," she says. "Eliot hasn't left your side, either; he came into the city to get you, and he's been so worried--"

The door opens and Eliot leads the healer inside. "Talking about me?" he asks, his gaze flickering between the two of them.

"Only good things," Quentin assures him with a smile. 

"I should hope so," Eliot says. "Are you going to be a good boy and hold still while the nice healer checks you over?"

Quentin makes a face. "I'm always good for the healers," he says, rolling his eyes. 

* * *

The healer pronounces Quentin well on the way to a full recovery, advising a night of bedrest before trying anything too taxing. Eliot stays for as long as he can, and Arielle stays the night. Quentin wakes the next morning absolutely _famished,_ and makes the trek down to the dining room with Arielle to see Eliot, Margo, and Fen already gathered and in deep conversation. "Good morning," Quentin says, alerting them to his and Arielle's presence. "Interesting conversation?"

"We're trying to decide what to do with our new prisoners," Fen answers, while Eliot gives Quentin a tender smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Much better," Quentin says with an answering smile, settling into his usual seat, Arielle at his side. "What new prisoners?"

"The dickwads who tried to kill you," Margo drawls. "I vote we behead them at dawn, but our High King isn't so sure." There's a note of frustration in her voice that makes Quentin feel like they've been having this argument all night.

Quentin blinks. "Fen?"

"Who knows who else these people have behind them? Or what support they'll rally if we show leniency?" Fen asks. "We should at least kill the leader, send a message that this kind of violence won't be tolerated."

"Just that retaliatory violence is," Quentin says without thinking. "Seriously, what do you think the next leader will do, even if it's you or Margo who orders the execution?"

"Quentin!" Arielle hisses; mortified.

"No," Eliot says, "he's right."

"He is not," Margo snaps. "We let them live and we're proving to the whole of Fillory that we're weak."

"We let them live and tell them that we understand their concerns, and that shows we aren't going to just crush anyone who doesn't agree with us," Quentin counters. "Find some other way to punish them for the assault and vandalism and terrorism, but execution makes it impossible for reconciliation and reformation."

Margo rests her hand on her chin, and leans toward Quentin, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry," she says. "Who died and made you entitled to an opinion? Unless I somehow slept through your coronation, I don't think there's an 'us' to speak of."

" _Bambi,_ " Eliot snaps. "Back off. Of course Quentin gets a say."

"Why, because he's your _soulmate?_ "

"Because he was almost beaten to death yesterday."

Quentin shoots Eliot a grateful look before turning his attention back to Margo. "Look, I'm just saying that the problem is these guys think it's really fucking unfair that a Child of Earth is High King, even though you, a Fillorian, are High Queen, and Fen is also queen. What does killing them accomplish? What message does it send?"

Margo sneers. "That we don't give a fuck what they or anyone else thinks, and that we'll destroy anyone who messes with us."

" _Exactly,_ " Quentin says emphatically. "That's not always a good thing, Margo. For people who are already halfway convinced that you're turning on your people in favor of supporting a foreigner - even though you've been here for years, you weren't born here - " Quentin adds, giving Eliot an apologetic look, "straight-up execution says that you don't actually care all that much about your people and their concerns." He glances at Arielle. "You're a native Fillorian, and not nobility - what do you think?"

"I hate that people were hurt," Arielle says. "I don't think violence is ever the answer to anything, and I definitely hate that they went after someone's soulmate to get their point across. But I've met people with their opinions before, people who think that Fillory should be ruled by Fillorians, not the Children of Earth. King Eliot, you've obviously taken steps to address that whether you meant to or not, by crowning Queen Margo and Queen Fen, but that hasn't silenced everyone. I think if the prisoners were executed, it might indicate to people who still have those opinions that you're not as progressive as you originally seemed."

Fen listens intently to Arielle, her expression thoughtful. "Even if we were to only execute the leader?" she muses. "I can see that opinion spreading - or _being_ spread." She glances at her wife. "You know how nobles gossip - the rest of us aren't any better."

"I still don't think we should execute anyone," Eliot says. "They should be punished, sure, but we should also be seen to address the reason for their... frustration in the first place."

"That's the part I'm not sure about how to accomplish, but... Execution should be the last resort," Quentin says. He glances at Fen and Arielle. "Do you have any ideas?"

Fen drums her fingers on the table for a moment. "What about a public forum?" she asks, thoughtful. "Give the people a chance to come forward, maybe in the city, and air their grievances."

"Not everyone's going to want to actually speak up, though," Quentin points out, a wry smile on his face. "Trust me, anxiety is a bitch."

"We can work out the specifics later," Eliot says, waving a hand. "At the end of the day, I get the final say. I'd love it if we could all agree, but if we can't, it doesn't really matter."

Margo stares at him. " _El._ "

"Bambi," Eliot says. "You know I've been trying to find my feet as High King. You know how important it is to me that I don't suck at it. Let me do this."

Margo looks like she's about to argue, but Fen cuts in. "So long as they're still punished, I'm open to seeing what not executing them and trying to talk about their ideas gets us. We just need to be smart about it."

"Smart how?" Margo demands.

"Security if we go with the forum, making sure we cover our asses," Fen says. "Realizing that there _is_ a danger here, no matter what we do, and trying to counter it."

"And what do we do with the prisoners instead of executing them?"

"Labor, maybe? Rebuilding what they destroyed could be a good place to start," Quentin suggests. 

"That's something we can decide with the help of the council, and maybe even the people of Whitespire," Fen says, thoughtful. 

Margo rolls her eyes. "I don't like this," she says, "but I can tell I'm being out-voted."

"I'd rather not do this without your support," Eliot says, pained.

"Yeah, yeah," Margo drawls. "Just wait for an 'I told you so' if you cock it up."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but his smile is small, fond, and the conversation moves to easier topics for the rest of the meal. 

* * *

Quentin spends the day showing Arielle around the castle, but when she eventually has to leave to return to the orchard, he sees her off. They part with a tight hug and a promise to stay in touch more frequently now, and Quentin returns to his rooms. It only takes an hour for him to decide that he is _exceedingly_ bored, and besides... He has a conversation to have with Eliot. 

No time like the present, he figures, and sets out in search of Eliot. 

Quentin finds him in his study, but he's quickly distracted by helping Eliot search through the historical records for any other instances of attacks on a High King's soulmate. Eventually they end up with a sizable stack of parchment, which Eliot sets aside in favor of calling for some wine and snacks, the two of them settling onto the sofa in front of the fire. "I love your study, have I mentioned that?" Quentin says, sighing in contentment after taking a sip of his wine. 

Eliot grins. "Cosy, isn't it?"

"Very," Quentin agrees with a hum. They fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments, and then Quentin shifts until he's facing Eliot more fully. "Hey, El? I... wanted to talk to you about something."

Eliot turns to look at him, too. "What is it?" he asks.

"Well, I wanted to ask about... About me staying. Here. In Whitespire."

"Where else would you stay?" Eliot asks, though the slight curve to his lips belies the vague panic in his eyes. "You're still recovering."

Quentin huffs a short laugh. "I meant like, after I'm recovered. Like... staying here long-term."

Eliot's jaw doesn't drop, but it's a near thing. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yeah," Quentin says, nodding. "I am. I-I really like it here, and I really... _really_ like you. I want to stay, if - if you'll have me."

But rather than smile, or nod, or do anything Quentin _hoped_ he would, Eliot's face falls. "Quentin," he says. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

Quentin throttles back his disappointment, makes himself take a breath before he speaks again. "Okay. Why not?"

"You were almost killed because of me," Eliot says flatly. "If you stay here and they decide to try again, you'll be a sitting duck. Next time you could walk away with more than a headache - if you walk away at all."

"And going back to the village instead of being here with you and guards is supposed to be safer? Clearly these people already know who I am, El."

"They did this to get to me," Eliot says. "If they think I've sent you away, you'll be safe."

"Or they'll just follow me back to the village," Quentin points out. "A soulmate bond doesn't just _go away,_ Eliot.”

"I can't keep you safe here!" Eliot cries, anguished. "What am I supposed to do?"

"It's dangerous for me everywhere now, El," Quentin says, his tone gentling as he reaches over to lay one hand over Eliot's, squeezing lightly. "Just like it's dangerous for you, Margo, or Fen. But it's _less_ dangerous here, where I have you three and the guards to protect me while I learn how to protect myself."

"You say that," Eliot says, "but we didn't exactly do a great job of protecting you this time."

"I went out without any guards and without any real self-defense knowledge," Quentin points out. "And nobody thought there was a threat. Now we know better."

Eliot sighs, shakes his head. "This is my life, Q," he says. "What happened in the city is just another day as a royal. Someone wants to kill us? Someone wants us off the throne? Must be Monday. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yeah, I am," Quentin says without hesitation, squeezing Eliot's hand again. "I've gotten a pretty good look at what the rest of your life is like, too, and that, and being with you, is worth the risk."

Eliot flips his hand over so that he can lace their fingers together and squeeze, hard. "I don't want you to leave," he says. "That's the last thing I want. But I don't know what I'll do if you get hurt again."

"I don't know what I'd do if _you_ got hurt," Quentin admits. "But I know we can take steps to reduce that risk. So let's do that."

Eliot hesitates for just a little longer, but then he nods. "You'll always have a home here," he promises.

Quentin smiles, soft and pleased. "I love you," he says, quiet and certain. "I'm not - You don't have to say it back. But I'm... _really_ glad that you're my soulmate, El. And that I'm yours."

Eliot smiles back. "Me too," he says. "Thank you for being the brave one."

Quentin laughs quietly. "Well, since I'm being brave, can I ask you something else?"

"Anything," Eliot says.

Quentin takes a deep breath. "Can I kiss you?"

Eliot actually laughs, soft and relieved. "God, yes."

A smile breaks across Quentin's expression, and without waiting another moment, he leans in and presses his lips to Eliot's. It's soft, and sweet, and so good. Eliot touches his face, cradles the back of his neck to keep him close, even when they break apart. They're both smiling, and Eliot draws him back in for another kiss before he speaks.

"We could've been doing that for weeks."

Quentin laughs quietly, leaning into Eliot's touch. "We could've, if _someone_ hadn't been such an ass when I first got here," he teases. 

"I'm sorry," Eliot says, achingly sincere. "I was scared. I'm still scared. But I'm trying to be brave."

"I know," Quentin murmurs, tilting his head for another kiss. "I know."

Eliot strokes Quentin's cheek with his thumb, and finally lets his gaze wander back to the mountain of paperwork on his desk. He sighs. "All of this will still be here in the morning. Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable?"

Quentin hesitates for a moment before he nods, smiles. "Yeah, alright," he says, reaching for Eliot's hand and tangling their fingers together. 

* * *

It takes them a couple of days to announce their decision about the prisoners. They put it out there that they won't be resorting to execution, and that they intend to respond to the obvious unease amongst Fillorians by opening themselves up to their concerns and addressing them directly. They also, after a full afternoon's long discussion, go public with Quentin's identity as Eliot's soulmate, as well as his involvement with the decision-making process. Quentin releases a statement of his own, explaining that he's spent the past year living and working alongside the average Fillorian, and assuring the public that he wants to see their lives bettered. Yet more proof of Quentin's bravery, of his inherent goodness. Eliot couldn't be more proud.

Even Margo is quietly impressed; she tells him so after breakfast, once Quentin is safely out of earshot. It's as close to an olive branch as they're going to get, and Eliot is all too happy for things to go back to normal after a frosty few days. They're gossiping in the throne room like old times when Tick Pickwick finds them. Not for the first time, Eliot resents his interruption.

"What can we do for you, Tick?" he asks, bored already.

"Your majesties, I've received some... intriguing reports from guards and merchants in the city," Tick says, well-used to Eliot's dismissal of him. "Concerning Quentin."

That gets Eliot's attention. He sits up straighter in his throne, alert. "What about him?" he demands.

"Nothing concerning," Tick hastens to assure them. "Just that - Well, public opinion of Quentin has gone... sky-high."

Eliot's jaw twitches. "Explain more."

"Simply put, the people approve of a young man who lived as one of them, endeared himself to the market merchants, and now isn't hiding when faced with his first sign of danger." Tick shrugs. "As I've been told, people quite like his spirit, and think that he'll be a... grounding force for you."

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he turns slowly to Margo. "This is good," he says. "Right?"

Margo raises her own eyebrow. "Maybe. I think he should hear this himself, though."

Eliot cuts his gaze to Tick. "Thank you for telling us," he says stiffly. "Can we have the room?"

Tick sketches out a bow. "Of course."

Eliot waits until they're alone before he speaks again. "I've been thinking," he says, haltingly, "about Quentin's place here."

"Oh?" Margo asks, though the tone of her voice suggests she already knows where Eliot is going with this. 

Eliot swallows. "You said something, right before I pulled my head out of my ass," he says. "You said we have a spare throne."

The corner of Margo's mouth quirks up. "We do."

"Did you mean it?" Eliot asks. "Would you be okay with that?"

Margo's smile is soft, despite the roll of her eyes and her tone as she says, "I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't okay with it, Eliot."

"No, I guess not," Eliot concedes. He smiles. "I think he'd be good for Fillory, don't you?"

”I do,” Margo agrees. “But more importantly, I think that he _is_ good for _you._ ”

Eliot flushes, pleased. "I guess I need to go talk to him."

* * *

Eliot follows the pull of the soulmate bond right out of the castle and into the grounds. He finds Quentin reading in a small walled garden, and the sight of him looking so soft and innocent almost makes Eliot loathe to disturb him. Almost. He clears his throat. "Hey."

Quentin looks up, already smiling as he marks his page. “Hey,” he returns. “You look… nervous.”

"I was hoping we could talk," Eliot says, by way of explanation and agreement. "If you're free?"

"Yeah, of course." Quentin scoots over on the bench, makes room for Eliot. "What about?"

Eliot sits down, puts a hand on Quentin's knee. "Tick dropped by the throne room this morning," he says. "Told us how the public received your statement. Apparently you're a big hit."

Quentin blinks. "Really?"

"Yep," Eliot says. "They love you, and they're very excited about what you could bring to the royal table."

Quentin smiles, soft and pleased, as a flush touches his cheeks. "Oh, well. It's just... common decency? Nothing - Nothing revolutionary about that."

"I beg to differ," Eliot says. "So do Margo and Fen. Which is why we've been thinking..."

"Thinking about...?"

Eliot clears his throat. "Well," he says. "I don't know if you're aware, but Fillory is supposed to have four monarchs. We only have three."

"Yeah," Quentin says slowly. "I remember hearing talk about that."

"Well," Eliot says again. "We were wondering if you wanted to be our fourth?"

Quentin's eyes widen - but then he frowns. "Are you only asking me because the people like me?"

"Oh-- Fuck." Eliot scrambles for Quentin's hands, both of them, and he grips them tight. "I'm doing this all wrong. No. It's great that the public like you, but Q. You're my soulmate. I want you by my side, in all the ways. I want you _ruling_ by my side."

" _Oh,_ " Quentin breathes. His hands tighten reflexively around Eliot's, and he swallows. "I - Are you sure? I don't... I don't really know anything about ruling."

Eliot laughs. "Me neither, and I've been doing it for three years," he says. "But how about we work it out together?"

Quentin bites his lip, but can't hide the smile blooming. "Well, alright," he says. "Out of curiosity, is this a marriage proposal, too?"

That shocks another laugh out of Eliot. "Do you want it to be?"

"I don't know," Quentin laughs, but it sounds nervous. "I mean, you asked me to basically share your kingdom - to share _everything_ with you, but you didn't even get down on one knee."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but he's smiling as he slides to one knee on the cool ground, still holding Quentin's hands. When he looks up to meet his gaze, there's a suspicions shine to his eyes - but no fear. "Quentin Coldwater," he says. "You've had my number since day one. I don't know what there is to say except, I love you. Will you marry me?"

Quentin gapes at Eliot as he speaks, but as soon as he actually asks the question, Quentin nods. "Of course I'll marry you, you dramatic ass," he says, laughing wetly. "Get off of the dirt, oh my gods."

Eliot lets Quentin pull him to his feet, but only so that he can duck down for a kiss. "I don't have a ring," he laughs. "Yet. But I have a crown."

"Oh _gods,_ " Quentin groans, but he's smiling. "Does it even fit? Do we have to get it refitted?"

"It's a magical world, Q," Eliot reminds him, grinning. "I think they adjust themselves to suit."

"Right, yeah, why wouldn't they?" Quentin says, laughing in the way someone laughs when they can't quite believe their situation is real. "So, are you going to give your fiance a proper kiss, or...?"

Eliot shakes his head, his smile fond, but he's already sliding his hand into what is quickly becoming his favourite spot on the side of Quentin's neck, his thumb sweeping gently at his cheekbone, as he dips for a second, lingering kiss. Quentin relaxes into the kiss readily, all but melting against Eliot as he returns it. When they finally part, he has one hand resting on Eliot's chest, right over his heart, and the other curved over Eliot's shoulder, hanging on like if he lets go, he'll fall to the ground and never get up again. 

"I really fucking love you," he breathes, not opening his eyes or moving out of Eliot's space just yet. 

"I really fucking love you, too," Eliot murmurs, grinning against Quentin's lips. When they kiss again, his soul _sings._


End file.
